


turn a little faster (the world will follow after)

by monroeslittle



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, Friends to Lovers, TV News
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 08:45:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11414343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monroeslittle/pseuds/monroeslittle
Summary: “You’ve been preparing to murder someone since 2007?”He squatted by her chair. “It isn’t going tokillhim,” he dismissed. “We’ll just put, like, aspoonfulin his coffee, and he’ll vomit up his lunch on national TV, and we’ll all have a good laugh about it. It’s perfect. What could go wrong?”"Somany things," Lydia said.AU. Stiles, Lydia, and friends vs. Peter Hale in the setting of The Newsroom.





	turn a little faster (the world will follow after)

**Author's Note:**

> A few things!
> 
> 1\. I'm a little rusty with this show/this couple, so be gentle with me. This was written for Rachel aka writergirl8, who requested a Stiles/Lydia meets The Newsroom AU. It was a lot of fun to write, but I'll warn you right now that it's a lot of silliness (and not a lot of news-ish-ness). I hope it doesn't disappoint!
> 
> 2\. I haven't watched Teen Wolf since maybe mid-season 4, so characters are based on that.
> 
> 3\. Rating is for sex & language.
> 
> 4\. There will be typos. I actually had someone edit this one, but I can never escape the typos.

Allison leaned against Lydia's desk. "I swear, it's like he thinks it's a _privilege_ for us when he deignsto be on the show. If I have to listen to him complain one more time about how we need to consider his scheduling constraints _more seriously_ , I'm going to lose it. I am. I'm going to lose it. I'm going tell him that crazy conservative pundits come at a dime a dozen, and I am more than happy to replace him, and free up his schedule." She crossed her arms.

"You should," Lydia said, checking her lipstick.

"I should."

"You won't." She snapped her pocket mirror closed, and looked at Allison. "But you should."

"He's one of Peter's favorites," Allison said. "I don't know why."

"Could it be because Peter is _Satan_?" Stiles said.

Allison glanced at him over the partition that separated his desk from Lydia's. "Possibly," she said, smiling.

"Who's up for drinks?" Lydia asked. "I need a drink. Or ten."

"Scott is reviewing tomorrow's schedule with Erica," Allison said. "And I've got to check in with Derek, but—"

"McCall!"

It was Peter. _Of course_. The show had _just_ gone off the air, and he already had something to complain about, stalking out of the studio, and getting the attention of half the newsroom.

Scott was standing at Erica's desk. "What's up?" he asked, frowning.

" _What's up_?" Peter said, incredulous. "Why don't _you_ tell me what's up? What's up with the fact that you schedule complete _morons_ to be on my show, and don't _bother_ to prep them? What's up with _that_?"

The whole newsroom stood silently now.

"Well?"

"I'm not sure I understand . . ."

"You are _not_ this much of a simpleton. Do I really have to lay it out for you? If you schedule idiotic guests on my show, you need to make sure they know what to say."

Scott was puzzled. "You wanted me to prep him on his _answers_?"

"Obviously."

"I thought the interview went really well," Allison said, speaking up. There was a glint in her eyes. She would put up with a lot of bullshit, but there was a line, and you crossed it when you went after Scott.

"I don't remember asking for your opinion," Peter said.

"I'm a producer on this show."

"I _am_ this show," he replied. "I'm the _face_ of _News Night_. And I don't like to be embarrassed by _buffoons_ who haven't been told what to say when I ask them simple, _straightforward_ questions." His voice rose in anger, and his gaze swung back to Scott. "Our job is to shock the audience. It isn't to shock _me_. Do you understand? Can you comprehend that with your little journalist degree from BU? You don't put me in that position. I look stupid, and when I look stupid, youlook stupid. Everyone in this room looks stupid. Is that what you want? Do you want to make _News Night_ a _joke_?"

"The point of our show is to inform," Lydia said, "and to educate."

He turned.

"The interview with the mayor of Philadelphia did _both_ of those things," she continued. "The fact that you didn't agree with his stance on immigration, and couldn't trick him into making a fool of himself?That's not Scott's fault."

He sucked his teeth. "I see."

She opened her mouth.

"No." He held up a finger. "I don't want to hear another word, Carrie. Make no mistake. You're here for your legs; you are not a Miranda. Nobody wants to hear your opinion on things. And if you have a problem with the way I run _my_ show, you're welcome to take your trendy little Monopoly talk segment to another, more _accommodating_ broadcast. I'd be more than willing to let my sister, the _president_ of Atlantis Cable News, know that you're unhappy with your position at his company. _Or_. . .you can keep your mouth shut, and stay a player on _my_ team." He raised his eyebrows. "So . . . ?"

She curled her lip.

"That's what I thought." He turned. "Does anyone else feel like chiming in?

It was silent.

"Then I guess I'll see everyone in the morning," he said. "Oh, and McCall? This doesn't happen again. Or you can kiss this job goodbye. Got it?"

"Got it," Scott said.

"Good." He smiled. "Glad to know we're all on the same page."

Slowly, people began talking again.

"I think we're definitely going to need those drinks," Allison said, bitter, and she made a beeline for Scott.

"Hey, wait!" Stiles said, because Derek had made the mistake of passing by Stiles's desk. "Really, dude?" He pushed to his feet. "You're just okay with that?" He flapped a hand. "You don't see any problem with what just went down?"

"Do your job, Stilinski," Derek said.

"Do _your_ job!"

Derek just sighed, and continued on his way to his office. He was the executive producer of the show, and if anyone had the power to make Peter shut up, it was Derek. It helped, too, that Peter was his uncle, and the president of the company was his mother, and there was no way that Derek was ever getting fired. If he wanted, he could do something about their _asshat_ of an anchor. He'd proven to be completely, utterly _useless_ , however.

"You okay over there?" Stiles asked.

Lydia glanced at him. "Do you know how hard I've worked to get here?"

"I know," he said, softening.

"I have a PhD."

"In economics from _Harvard_ ," he said.

"I speak _eight_ languages."

"English, Spanish, French, German, Portuguese, Japanese, and Mandarin."

"And my segment _consistently_ gets the most views on ACN's YouTube channel every week."

"Thirty-two week straight!"

She shook her head. "I should quit."

"What? No. No way!"

"You should quit, too." She looked at him. "Scott, Allison. We're better than this. There are plenty of other news shows that would _hand_ us jobs. We have the education, the skills, the experience. We don't have to put up with him." The more she talked about it, the better it sounded.

"There are plenty of other news shows," Stiles said, wide-eyed, and hasty, "but this is the _best_. And Peter didn't make it that way. _We_ made it that we. Me, and you, and Scott, and Allison. _Deaton_ made it that way. We've won an _Emmy_!"

"We aren't about to win any more with _Lucifer_ at the helm," she muttered.

"No," he said, "but _we_ aren't quitting."

"Well, he isn't about to."

"I know." He sighed. "Unfortunately. But how about instead of complaining about him behind his back, we _do_ something?" He leaned in closer to the partition, to her, and lowered his voice. "We might not be able to make him quit. But we can certainly take him down a few pegs."

She tilted her head. "Do you have something in mind?"

"I might have some ideas."

"Specifically?"

"Have you ever seen the movie _Mean Girls_?"

She crossed her arms.

"Come on," he said. "Someone's got to take him down. Why can't it be us?"

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"I'm in," she said. "Let's take him down a few pegs. _Mean Girls_ style. Who knows? We might get lucky, and he might decide to quit."

"That's the dream." He grinned.

"Okay!" Allison was striding over to them with her purse in hand. "Scott has to check in with Derek, then we're good to go. First round is on me. I need that drink, stat."

\---

She had just moved to New York for a job when she'd gotten the call from Alan Deaton. He'd explained that he was familiar with her work, and he was starting a nightly news broadcast that he thought she might like to join. He'd invited her to interview with him as soon as she was available.

She had, and he'd offered her the job on the spot.

"Do you want to hire me because of what I know, or because of the way I look?" she'd asked.

He'd smiled. "People will watch because of the way you look," he'd said. "But when they watch, they'll be blown away by what you know, and what they'll learn."

She'd taken the job.

It was a dream.

She had a five minute spot on one of the most watched, most acclaimed nightly news shows, and she could discuss whatever she wanted in that time. Through her spot on the show, she'd gotten a job hosting ACN's hour-long, afternoon finance show. She was the Senior Finance Reporter for the network, was recognized, and respected, and it had nothing to do with what she looked like in a dress.

It helped that she liked a lot of the others at _News Night_.

Scott was a producer, and Deaton's protégé. Earnest, and hard-working. He wasn't exactly Lydia's type, but he was nice, and she supposed she'd call him a friend.

Allison was a producer, too, and she was a natural at the job. In a matter of weeks, she'd become Lydia's best friend. She was nicer than Lydia, open and friendly and kind. But, still, she was the kind of woman that Lydia liked best: charming and attractive and fashionable, yes, and, on top of that, _kickass_ , smart and capable and more than ready to prove it when you made the mistake of imagining she was just a skirt.

Isaac, Erica, and Boyd were studio crew, and although Isaac grated on her nerves at times, she like that they took their jobs seriously, and performed them perfectly.

Kira was a director, and she was _killer_ at her job.

Stiles was annoying. He seemed to have a lot of time on his hands, although, _allegedly_ , it was a full time job to run all of the social media accounts for _News Night_. She knew he had a lot of time on his hands because his desk was right up against her desk in the center of the newsroom, and they were separated by an excuse of a partition. He was chatty, and snacked at all hours of the day, and was just always, constantly _fidgeting_. If he wasn't bouncing a ball on the partition, he was drumming his leg, or spinning in his chair, or cracking his neck so loudly she was forced to breathe slowly though her nose to keep herself from _breaking_ his neck.

To make it worse, she always liked what he tweeted in reference to her segment, and when he made blog posts that referenced her segments, they were thoughtful, well-written, and made it clear that he'd watched her segment and understood it.

She would have preferred if he was an idiot.

She'd been more than grateful when she'd gotten her job hosting a show in the afternoon, and it had come with her own office.

(It wasn't until she'd spent a couple of days in the quiet, secluded space that she realized she missed him.)

She'd gotten unceremoniously booted out of her office soon after Deaton's departure, however, and she'd ended up back across from Stiles.

Once upon a time, she had figured she'd spend the rest of her career with ACN.

But that was back before Deaton had announced his retirement. He'd suffered a heart attack, and he'd wanted to spend more time with his family, relaxing, and looking after his health. Nobody could have expected who'd replace him as lead anchor and managing editor of _News Night._

Peter Hale was a plague upon humankind.

She'd fought to be worthy of this job.

If she had to fight to keep it, fine. She would. Just because her nails were painted pink, didn't mean they couldn't become claws when the occasion called for it.

\---

At the bar, they pushed two tables together, dragged stools over from everywhere, and Allison bought a dozen bottled beers to start the night.

Stiles was eager to invite the rest of the group to "get in on" the plan to bring Peter down.

"Guys like Peter can't be brought down," Allison said. "It's not just that his sister is the president of the company, and his nephew is the EP of the show. Guys like Peter thrive on attention. He thinks so highly of himself, he's immune to criticism. Nothing you could do would actually bother him."

"Sweetie," Lydia said.

Allison sighed, and smiled a fond, exasperated smile at her beer.

"You underestimate my ability to ruin a man."

"Would you say you've ruined a lot of men?" Isaac asked, raising his eyebrows.

"I've done what I needed to do."

He blinked. "That's . . . I'm actually a little bit terrified right now." He looked at Scott, and at Stiles. "That's not just me, right? That was—that was terrifying. That was code for _there's a false back to my closet that hides the room full of bodies_ , right?"

" _I,"_ Stiles said, downing the rest of his beer, and slamming the bottle on the table, pausing for a moment for the drama, "am _confident_. We _are_ going to bring him down. And you all—" He pointed his finger at everyone. "—are going to rue the day you missed out on the chance to become newsroom heroes with us."

"You do you, man," Scott said, smiling, and shaking his head.

"And if worse comes to worse," Erica said, "we can always just push the asshole in front of a bus, right?"

\---

She slipped into Peter's office when he was at lunch, and closed the blinds that allowed the newsroom to look in, and Stiles followed, half slipping, half _falling_ into the office, and yanking the door shut after him.

His laptop had a password.

"Do we know what it is?" she asked, looking over Stiles's shoulder at the screen.

He held up a finger.

She didn't know what he did to the computer, but, somehow, he hacked it, and got on without a password.

He got to work quickly, pulling up the Internet, and starting to download a lot of porn, singing under his breath. " _The internet is for porn_ ," he sang. " _The internet is for porn. Why you think the net was born? Porn, porn, porn!_ " He made a folder for all of the porn, and named it _research_.

"Now what are you doing?"

His fingers were flying over the keyboard. "I'm backdating the downloads," he said. "It isn't untraceable, but the IT guys at ACN are _terrible_. Seriously, you should come to me if you have problems with your computer. They're the worst." He glanced at her. "Anyway, I'll plant a virus in one of the raunchier porn downloads, and that'll be what we send out from his email to everyone in the office. I'll wait to do it remotely when he's back, though."

She nodded.

She got a text from Allison when Stiles was downloading a few more, especially weird, kinky videos. From her desk, Allison had seen Peter's car pull into the lot. Stiles exited out of everything, and closed the laptop, drumming on top of it for a moment with a grin.

"Come on," Lydia said, heading for the door.

They were back at their desks when they saw Peter step off the elevator on the landing that overlooked the newsroom, and disappear into his office.

"Well, that was easy," she said.

Even if his sister didn't actually fire Peter for infecting the servers with the virus that was embedded in his weird tentacle porn, she was sure to chew him out for it.

 _And everyone was doubting that we could do it_ , Lydia thought.

Stiles pressed the button in the afternoon. She was on air. But as soon as she stepped out of the studio, she was met with a flurry of activity in the newsroom, and, for a moment, she thought a story had broken, and that was why everyone was hovering at computers, pointing, and gasping.

"What's going on?" she asked.

" _Don't_ open the email from Peter," Isaac said, wide-eyed.

She had to purse her lips to keep from grinning. Her gaze flew to Stiles, and he wasn't even bothering to hide a grin, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head. She flipped her hair behind her shoulder, and headed for her desk.

Five minutes later, the elevator doors opened to reveal a livid Talia Hale.

"Someone's in trouble," Kira said.

They couldn't hear what Talia was saying to Peter, of course, once she'd stalked into his office, and slammed the door shut. They could hear that her voice had risen, and they saw her waving her arms about before Peter closed the blinds, but they weren't treated to more than that. Unfortunately. She was in there until _minutes_ before Peter was supposed to go on the air. Even if some of that time was her giving him a chance to try to explain the virus-riddled, tentacle-featuring pornography that he'd emailed to everyone at ACN, she was sure to have spent a lot of the three whole hours just chewing out his arrogant, idiotic ass.

She seemed calmer when she left his office at last, though.

Peter didn't seem very ruffled either.

"Is it wrong that I was hoping he'd be a little more . . . _shook_?" Stiles asked, keeping his voice low.

They learned why at the morning staff meeting.

"Some of you might have seen the attachment that was sent from Peter's email yesterday," Derek said, clearing his throat loudly before Stiles could interject with a comment. "The attachment had a virus on it, which IT is still working on getting off of our servers. In the meantime, we're going to focus on why Peter had downloaded a video that was embedded with a virus."

"Is this really the time to discuss Peter's proclivities?" Lydia asked.

"If you'd rather," Peter said, "we can discuss it at dinner."

"I'd _rather_ stab myself in the eye with the heel of my shoe," she said, sour.

He winked.

" _Anyway_ ," Derek said. "Peter's been researching porn for an expose on the way that the industry is influenced by, and is influencing, private browser security."

"You're joking," Stiles said.

"We've gotten approval from upstairs to go ahead with this."

 _Seriously_?

The moment they were out of the meeting, Stiles was beside her. "He convinced his sister that the porn on his computer was _research!_ "he hissed. "And here I was thinking she was an intelligent human being and Peter must have been adopted." He flailed his arms.

"We didn't think," Lydia said. "He knows how to bullshit his sister. He wouldn't have made it this far if he didn't."

"He wants to do an _expose_ on the effect of _porn_ on _private browser security_!"

"Clearly, we can't rely on his sister."

"Clearly!"

"It's fine," she said, sitting at her desk. "We tried your idea of hacking his computer. Now we'll try _my_ idea." She glanced up at his office. "He won't be able to talk his way out of my plans for him."

\---

She took Jennifer from PR to lunch on Friday. She brought up the idea as casually as possible, and once Jennifer was interested, the rest was easy. Lydia assured Jennifer that she was happy to help in planning the event, was happy to talk to the hosts of the shows, was happy to do everything she could to make it a success.

ACN was going to host a telethon for charity.

To make it interesting, it would be a competition of sorts between the hosts of the two most popular, highest rated ACN shows.

That was _News Night_ , and _Right Now with Danny Mahealani_.

"I still don't get how you're going to keep Sauron from finding out what you've got planned," Stiles said.

" _Carefully_ ," Lydia said.

It would be a competition, and the host who raised less money would face a consequence. Have his head shaved on a morning talk show, or the like. Peter was likely to back out when he learned about that particular detail, however. She had to make sure, therefore, that he didn't learn about it. Or, at least, that he didn't learn about it until it was too late for him to back out of the shenanigans. Luckily, hiding things from Peter wasn't difficult when he spent the majority of the day with his head up his own ass.

Stiles came up with the idea to put a poll on Twitter that allowed the viewers to choose the consequence.

After it was posted, there wasn't any way to hide it from Peter.

They didn't have to, though.

People were excited. Peter was stuck. He had to do it.

It turned out, too, that he wasn't too worried about having to go through with one of the ridiculously embarrassing consequences that Stiles had included in the poll. "There's no way I'm going to raise less money than that homo," he said. As far as Lydia was concerned, that was his way of saying that he'd _love_ to eat a plate of buffalo testicles on national TV.

None of this was dignified, of course. It was the kind of gimmick that she liked to think their broadcast was above. These were desperate times, however.

"I have a question," Kira said. "What happens if he _does_ raise more money than Danny?"

"The event is for homeless LGBT teenagers in the city," Lydia said. "Do you really think the audience of conservatives that Peter has cultivated for us over the course of a year is going to raise more money for that than the audience of an openly gay, outspoken LGBT advocate?"

" . . . that's really smart."

"I know."

The telethon was for 24 hours from eight am on a Saturday to eight am on Sunday.

Peter was raising more money than Lydia had expected he would.

Still.

He was trailing behind throughout the day.

By four in the morning, Danny was more than significantly in the lead, and it was clear that Peter was going to lose.

But if he was worried, he wasn't letting it ruin his wide, charming camera smile.

She got a text from Stiles. _VICTORY!_ She grinned, and looked up across the newsroom to meet his gaze.

Peter was going to get one of his nipples pierced on national TV.

In the end, people had chosen what Stiles deemed the "tamest" of the options in his poll.

Her phone buzzed again, but it wasn't from Stiles. It was a text from Aiden, and it was a picture of his dick. Classy. She rolled her eyes, and exited out quickly. He could send pictures of himself as much as he liked, but he was never getting anything in reply.

It happened at 7:32 am on Sunday.

Two hundred fifty thousand dollars was anonymously donated.

It tipped the scales. At 8 am, Peter had raised more money than Danny. He _won_ the competition.

"Is he _allowed_ to donate money himself?" Stiles asked.

" _Apparently_ ," Lydia said.

"It's a shame _I_ didn't have a cool quarter mil to donate," Danny said. "Whatever. Now the left will match the right."

"What's that now?" Stiles said.

"Plus, we raised over a million dollars for kids who need it," Danny added. "Could be worse."

That was true.

They'd raised a lot of money for a charity that Peter openly scoffed at. They could take satisfaction, too, in knowing that they'd cost Peter two hundred fifty thousand dollars. Or at least they thought they could until it turned out that Peter hadn't actually paid that money.

He'd gotten his sister to do it.

"I told her under no uncertain terms was I going to get my fucking nipple pierced." Peter said, starting the daily staff meeting by talking about himself. "She knows what I'm like with needles. And who'd even take me seriously when I tried to report the news after that? All they'd be able to think about was how good I looked without a shirt on." He grinned. "She was annoyed that I'd back out, but I told her I would, and she had to cough up the money."

He was the _worst_.

"I guess you can't plan for everything," Kira said after the meeting, sympathetic.

"I should have, though," Lydia said, glaring at her beer. "I should have planned for the fact that Peter's an _asshole_." She'd wasted two _months_ on this. She sighed. She'd just have to plan for _everything_ next time.

\---

It startled her when he set the bottle on her desk with a flourish. "What is that?" she asked, sparing a glance at the bottle, and returning her gaze to her computer. The excitement was rolling off him in waves, but she was kind of in the middle of, you know, _work._

" _That_ ," he said, "is ipecac."

She raised an eyebrow. "The syrup that makes you throw up?" She looked at him.

He grinned.

"I thought they discontinued this," she said, picking up the bottle.

"They did." He squatted by her chair, and took the bottle. "My gran never threw out anything, and I found that when we cleaned out her house after she died, and I thought it could be useful."

"This is from _2007_."

"I know!"

"You've been preparing to murder someone since 2007?"

He squatted by her chair. "It isn't going to _kill_ him," he dismissed. "We'll just put, like, a _spoonful_ in his coffee, and he'll vomit up his lunch on national TV, and we'll have a good laugh about it. It's perfect. What could go wrong?"

" _So_ many things," she said. "How are you planning on getting a hold of his coffee?"

"Easy," he said. "Erica gets it for him most days. I'll just volunteer to do it for her this afternoon."

"Why?"

"I'm magnanimous."

"Hardly."

"I'll say I have to get a haircut, or something." He waved a hand. "That part isn't important. I'll improvise."

"It sounds like you've got it all planned out."

"I do." He pocketed the bottle. "It's going to work. You'll see."

She had to admit that she liked the idea of Peter getting sick in front of a national TV audience. Chances were he'd get off the stage before he actually threw up, of course, but she was allowed to dream. Also, she'd do a bit of research, because she didn't want Stiles to go to prison for manslaughter.

She was on air that afternoon when Stiles offered to pick up the coffee.

She was back at her desk when he returned with the drink, however, and he caught her eye, and sent her the most obvious, exaggerated wink.

"Erica, where—?"

"Here!" Stiles said, and he hurried to Peter with the drink raised over his head. "Here! I've got it. Sorry. There was a line at the barbershop. Because I got a haircut. It was just like an inch, which is why you probably don't notice a difference." He held up his fingers to demonstrate an inch. "I told them I didn't want that fresh cut look, you know. Anyway, I got your usual! You're welcome."

"Venti Soy Quadruple Shot Latte with no foam?"

" . . . yeah."

Peter took the drink from him. "They could have at least taken some of the grease with that _inch_ ," he said _._ "

Stiles's gaze found Lydia again. He wasn't even angry, though; he was the cat who caught the canary in that moment. She rolled her eyes at him.

"There is foam on this."

"What?"

"I can't drink that." Peter had taken the lid off the drink, and he shoved it on again, handing the cup to Erica like it was a dead animal. "Get me my _usual_."

"What should I do with this?" Erica asked.

"Drink it? Water the plants with it?" Peter said, annoyed. "I don't know. Do I look like I care?" He'd already started walking off. "You should be on your way to get me something to drink! Something _acceptable_ to drink." he said, raising his voice.

Erica turned away from him with a sigh. "It was a nice thought," she said, and she pushed the lid on properly again before starting to lift the cup to her lips.

"No!"

Half the newsroom turned towards him at his shout.

Erica was startled.

"I—you know, I'm actually really feeling under the weather right now, so I could use a pick me up, so I'll just take that—" He grabbed the drink from her. "Thanks. I appreciate it!"

There was a pause.

"Well, are you doing to drink it?" Peter asked, because he'd turned at the shout, too.

"I . . . _of course_ ," Stiles said. "Nothing like a Venti Soy Quadruple Shot Latte with a _smidge_ of foam to turn this frown upside down. I just . . ."

Peter crossed his arms, and raised his eyebrows, staring at him.

"Here I go."

Lydia touched a hand to her mouth when Stiles took a sip of the drink.

"Ah," Stiles said. "Delicious." He licked at the foam on his lip. "Nice, and . . . foamy. Just the way I like it."

"Whatever," Peter said, sighing.

It wasn't until he'd turned away, and Erica was heading off, too, that Stiles stumbled over to Lydia. She held up the trashcan under her desk for him. He dumped the drink like it was on fire, and snatched her water off her desk, downing it.

"It was good in theory," she told him.

"Who cares _that_ much about the foam?" he mumbled. "Like can't you drink _around_ the foam? What did foam ever do to him?"

"How are you feeling?"

"It's fine," he said, drinking the rest of her water, and wiping his mouth. "It was a _sip_. I'm fine."

He wasn't.

Twenty minutes later, he stood up abruptly at his desk. "I—" His eyes widened, and he touched a hand to his mouth. "Oh, God." He seemed to cringe, and, suddenly, he was off, half-walking, half-running to the bathroom.

She waited a minute before following him.

The moment she stepped into the bathroom, she heard the sound of vomiting in one of the stalls.

"I guess a sip is enough when it's been expired for a decade, huh," she said.

"I'm _dying_ ," he rasped.

After a beat of silence, she approached the stall he was in. He was breathing in raggedly, gripping the toilet, and waiting. "Can I get you something?" she asked. "Water? Crackers? A physician? Coffee?" He turned his head to glare at her, and she had to press her lips together to keep from smiling at him.

His face grew suddenly, impossibly paler, and he whirled back around, throwing up.

"That's it, buddy," she said, patting his back. "Let it out."

"I'm going to get him for this," Stiles said, panting. "I'm going to pin him to the wall, and pour coffee foam into his mouth. I'm going to—"

She winced at the sound of throw up hitting the water.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

"I'll just give you your privacy," she said.

He grunted.

She left, and when she saw Boyd on his way to the bathroom, she held up a hand. "You might want to hold it." He frowned, and she patted his shoulder as she passed him.

She gave it about an hour, and checked in again.

It was quiet.

"How are you holding up?" she asked. "You've been in here for a while. _Should_ I call a doctor?"

"Nope." His voice was hoarse. "I'm great. I don't think there's anything left to throw up. Now I'm just throwing up the lining of my stomach. That's cool, right? I'm _great_."

"Glad to hear it."

He was sprawled on the floor with his back to the stall, and he seemed slightly better. He wasn't as pale as before. He saw her, and gave her a thumbs up.

She couldn't help smiling at that.

"I flew too close to the sun," he said. "It's my own fault."

"Well, Icarus, this might be better," she replied, and she knelt on the floor. She'd just throw out these tights after work. "He would have known you messed with his coffee, and he would have gotten you fired." She touched the back of her hand to his forehead. He didn't have a fever.

"It would've been worth it."

"Possibly." She found his pulse with her fingers. It was steady.

"What's the prognosis?"

"You're dehydrated," she told him. "I'm going to get you some water."

He nodded. "You take such good care of me." He let his head loll back on the stall, and gave her a dopey little smile. She rolled her eyes, and rose up, pressing a kiss to the top of his head on impulse.

\---

Stiles was like a rare, brightly colored fungi. He was interesting, nice to look at if you liked that sort of thing, and, well, he grew on you. She would know, because he'd grown on her so much she didn't know how she'd ever get him off again.

It had started with Jackson, and reddit, and _lordvader42._

It was a couple of months into the job with ACN, and she'd still been with Jackson, but they'd begun fighting _constantly_. He'd been pissed at her for taking the job, for making them be a long distance couple, and he'd started to pick fights with her over _everything_. They'd gotten into a fight about their real, actual problems one night, though.

It had gotten very nasty, very quickly.

"If the distance is a problem for you, you're welcome to move to _my_ city," she'd snapped. "Because I'm not moving. I don't care if it's hard for you to have to get yourself off. I'm not quitting. I get treated with _respect_ at this job."

"Yeah?" he'd said, and there was a sneer in his voice. "Do you want to know what people think about your _work_? Get on reddit, why don't you?"

She had.

She should've known better.

There was a subreddit on reporters, and it seemed like it was set up to compare news outlets, and discuss the honesty of this reporter, or that anchor. But when it came to discussions about her, everything was centered on her boobs or that dress or how she _caked_ on makeup, and what was up with that, why did she think that made her look good, what was she trying to hide with all that foundation. She'd found the thread of comments on her, and she'd been unable to stop reading every gross, sexist comment.

"You can't read that stuff," Allison had said the next day at work.

It was impossible _not_ to, though.

She'd gone back on the site that night, and that was when she'd seen it, when she'd watched new comments appear before her eyes because someone was _defending_ her.

 _lordvader42_.

He wasn't just saying he liked her makeup, or anything. Plenty of people had already said that. He was telling off people for talking about her like she wasn't a person, like she wasn't ten times as smart as they were.

 _are you really that much of a loser that you have to talk shit about the way a woman looks because you're too stupid to understand what she's saying_?

People had tried to argue that they did understand what she was saying, and her opinions were wrong, and he'd really torn into them after that, proving that not only was she smarter than all of them but also that _he_ was smarter than all of them.

She'd figured out who he was because of one, small off-hand comment.

_I work at ACN, dumbass._

She'd looked at what other threads he'd commented in, and discovered that he knew a lot about politics, had a lot of opinions about Star Wars, and had a tendency for spiraling into long, angry rants about random things like the necessity of understanding the historiography of modesty in culture to understand why modern mythology retellings were _wrong_ , and Persephone _wasn't_ kidnapped, _or is your only knowledge of mythology the Edith Hamilton book that your 9_ _th_ _grade English teacher made you read?_

It'd been easy to put a face on the username with that information.

Stiles was annoying.

But.

There were a lot worse things he could be.

She'd say later that it was his coming to her defense on reddit that made her soften to him, and decide to give him more of a chance, though she'd never told him that she knew he'd done that.

In truth, he'd been winning her over slowly from the start.

She had a lot in common with Stiles. He liked weird science books and murder mystery documentaries and complicated, strategy-based board games. It was nice to have some real competition when playing _Settlers of Catan_.

She liked that he was a dork, and knew it. _Owned_ it.

She came into work on a Tuesday, and found Scott filming Stiles trying to twerk.

Allison was crying from laughter. Everyone was laughing. _Stiles_ was laughing, and she'd never really known a guy who was willing to laugh at himself.

She'd returned to her big new office from fighting with Jackson on the phone in the bathroom one afternoon, and Stiles had been lying on her sofa with his laptop on his belly, and she'd lost it.

"Why are you _in_ here?"

"Have you seen this video of this pigeon eating a hot dog?" he'd asked.

It had taken him a moment to look at her.

But when he had, he'd sat up in alarm. "What's the matter? Did something happen? What happened?" It was obvious that she'd been crying, and he'd gaped at her in search of an explanation.

"Nothing. Just. My boyfriend is an asshole, okay?" She'd sat at her desk. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Do you want me to beat him up?"

She'd snorted.

"Yeah." He'd nodded. "That's a good call. I'm more _intellectually_ resourceful. But, hey." He'd picked up his laptop, and brought it to her, circling her desk to set it in front of her. "This'll make you feel better. Seriously. It eats the _whole_ hot dog."

 _I'm not going anywhere_ , she'd thought.

She'd always been more for the hard sciences. Chemistry, and physics. But it turned out there was something to be said for the natural sciences, and orange peel fungus that just keeps growing until it's all you can see.

\---

They went for lunch at the greasy burger joint that was a block from the office. Stiles always got a burger with fries, but Lydia preferred breakfast for lunch, and she'd steal a few of his fries, and allow him one slice of bacon in return. This wasn't lunch for the sake of lunch, though.

It was business.

"How about we fill his office with chickens?" Stiles said.

" _Chickens_?"

"Yeah." He nodded. "You know, cluck cluck cluck." He bopped his head like a chicken. "Chickens."

"Why would we fill his office with _chickens_? How would we get the chickens into his office? Where would we _get_ the chickens?"

"I don't hear you chiming in with any great ideas. And you make it sound as if chickens are rare, mythical creatures. I'm sure it is not _that_ hard to procure a chicken."

She swirled her straw in her soda. "He's got a date on Friday. Yes? He's been bragging about it. Some super model. So. Let's cancel his credit cards. Report them stolen. He'll go to pay for dinner, and get declined." She shrugged.

"Where's the payoff in that?"

"The point is to embarrass him, isn't it?"

"We don't need him to be embarrassed in front of some random woman!" he exclaimed. "We need him to be embarrassed in front of the camera! In front of us! In front of his sister, who will come to her senses, although I'm not entirely positive she has senses, and fire him! Or, like, send him to the office in Alaska, or something." He flapped a hand.

She considered. "We could convince him to cover a fake story."

"Okay." He nodded. "I like where this is going."

"No." They had to think this through. "No, we couldn't. That might embarrass him, and get him fired, but we'd likely end up fired, too," she said. "Besides, it would hurt the show's reputation. We can't risk that."

"Could we pay a hungry college student to mug him?"

"Do we want to get _violent_?"

"Yes!"

She laughed, and stole a fry off his plate.

"Okay, I've got it. Let's just fill his office with condoms. Seriously. Condoms, and vibrators, and, like, butt plugs. Just fill every drawer. No, seriously! This is a legitimate idea! Stop looking at me like that. It could work! He has important meetings in there, and stuff. Important people go in there. Just imagine Talia Hale goes to open a drawer in search of a pen, and what does she find? A sparkly pink butt plug. Oh, you think it's funny now?" He pointed at her. "It's going to be a lot funnier when it happens!"

\---

She got the idea the moment she saw his name on the tag. She was there for pick up, and as soon as the girl at the front had disappeared into the back to fetch her dress, she grabbed a pen off the desk, and altered the measurements. She was careful to match Peter's neat, slanted writing.

This would probably amount to simply an inconvenience for him.

Still.

She was early to work the next day.

She sat at Stiles's desk because she could, and she couldn't help snooping, finding his jolly rancher stash in a drawer, and taking a cherry flavored sucker. He had a bunch of toys in there: an old, '90s Gameboy, some fidget spinners, and an actual Rubik's Cube; there were several chapstick tubes, too, and a stick of deodorant. She liked the smell of his deodorant. It always made him smell crisp and fresh and just like _him_. It was definitely an improvement over heavy, cloying aftershaves and colognes and that awful "musk" body spray that Jackson had worn when they were together.

She was playing his Gameboy with her feet up on his desk when he arrived.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Did you know that Peter gets his clothes altered at the same place I get _my_ clothes altered?"

He raised his eyebrows.

"I took the liberty of revising a couple of measurements," she said.

He grinned.

In the end, it worked out better than she could've imagined.

Peter sent Erica to pick up the suits on Friday, because he had his big, fancy date with a model that night, and he was going to dress to impress. His date was only half an hour after the show ended, which meant he would be forced to change in his office, and he'd definitely _have_ to change. On his way out of the newsroom, he happened to bump into Stiles, and Stiles was drinking a Dr. Pepper, and half the bottle ended up spilling on Peter. "You're lucky I'm on my way to change," Peter said, angrily swatting away Stiles's efforts to pat him dry with tissues from Kira's desk. He stormed up to his office, closed the door, and closed the blinds.

It was quiet for a couple of minutes.

Stiles had to turn his laughter into a cough when Peter emerged from his office at last. His pants barely made it halfway down his calves. He'd pulled up his socks as high as they'd go, but it didn't help much.

"I didn't know manpris were in," Lydia said, innocent.

"There's a lot you don't know, Britney," he said, clicking his tongue at her, and heading out of the newsroom.

There was a pause.

". . . He _saw_ , right?" Stiles said.

"He saw," she said. "He just didn't care. He will, though." She crossed his arms. "This is better. He won't realize he looks ridiculous until people are staring at him in the street."

It was a shame she wouldn't be there to see that.

She hoped he ended up lambasted in _People_ , or _O.K._ , or another celebrity magazine.

How was she supposed to know it would be the _opposite_?

He was strutting around the office on Monday, was _gleeful_ , and he announced to the newsroom that he was featured in O.K. on the page for new, hot trends. Lydia was stunned. But he dropped the magazine on her desk, and, yes, there was actually a photograph of him on his date with his stupidly short trousers, because, apparently, it was fashionable to have on manpris.

"I'm an icon," Peter said. "I wear it. It happens."

"Nobody wants to see that much of your hairy little chicken legs," Lydia said.

He chuckled. "You're cute. Have you written about the latest hot trend I started on your blog?"

"Myblog?"

"You don't have a fashion blog?" He frowned. "You seem like you'd have a fashion blog. You should think about starting one. Women need hobbies."

She was going to snap his neck.

"You can keep that copy," he said, nodding at the magazine, and the moment he'd turned, she threw it violently in the trash.

\---

"You've actually accomplished a lot," Allison said, looking idly through a rack of floral print dresses. "You've helped _News Night_ receive accolades for a piece on pornography, you've made Stiles violently sick in the bathroom at work, you've turned Peter into a fashion icon." She was failing to smother a smile.

"We knew this was going to be a _process_ ," Lydia said.

"Can't you just teepee his house? Leave some flaming dog poop on his doorstep? Hack his Facebook, and post sad, emo song lyrics?"

"This isn't some friendly _prank_."

"No?"

"This is _war_."

Allison just shook her head at Lydia. "Seriously, though. When are you going to give this up?"

"I've never felt the need to give up before," Lydia said, taking a silky purple blouse off the table in front of her, "and it isn't a need I'd like to begin developing now. We underestimated how _oblivious_ Peter would be, and how, therefore, difficult he would make it to embarrass him. That doesn't mean we're just going to _give up._ "

"I get it. You're having fun conspiring with Stiles."

"This isn't fun."

"Right. It's war. Obviously. A one-sided war that you are losing."

"Did you ask me to come shopping with you because you wanted me to help you shop, or because you wanted to smirk at me like you know some secret that I don't?"

"Both."

She tossed the blouse at Allison. "You look good in purple," she said. "And, for the record, you don't know any secret. We're _friends_. That's it. I have standards, you know." She might have come to appreciate Stiles's intellect, and to enjoy his company on occasion, but that was the extent of their relationship, thank you very much, and Allison could stop assuming otherwise.

\---

Stiles burst backstage right before she was supposed to go on air. Hannah was doing her makeup, and Lydia had to stay still, but she was able to glance at him, and raise an eyebrow. "What?" she said, because he was bent with his hands on his knees, and he was panicked.

"He took your segment," he panted.

"What?"

"Voldemort." He straightened. "He just spent, like, ten minutes off topic, discussing the future of global finance systems, and the role of the U.S. in determining the reach of reliable financial services."

"That's what I had planned for tonight."

"I know! But he was interviewing the Senator, and he brought it up, and Allison had no idea what was going on, and why, if he was planning on talking about finances, he hadn't said, or consulted you, or anything, but I think he was _trying_ to exclude you, and, like, to steal your topic from you. I think he did it on purpose."

She pursed her lips. "I need to see a playback."

"Lydia." Erica stuck her head around the corner. "This is three."

"Commercials," Stiles said. "Get the playback. I'll make Scott have it go to commercials. That'll buy you time! Go!" He was running off before she could say a word.

She stalked out after him.

Isaac was able to show her the clip, although she couldn't watch everything, and Stiles had to summarize the rest in a rush. She clenched her jaw until it hurt at what she saw, what Stiles told her. Peter wasn't just trying to pull one over on her, and make her look out of touch with the show. He was _wrong_. His explanation was simplistic, and not in a way that made it possible for people to understand. It was simplistic in a way that was biased, and incorrect, and completely, totally _wrong._

Erica began ticking off fingers at Lydia to warn her that the camera was going to be on her in three, two, one.

"The future of global finance system is an intricate, far-reaching issue. That's the nature of _global_ , isn't it? Peter, you suggested that we need _deregulation_ to encourage public trust in the financial systems landscape."

Boyd panned the camera out to include Peter in the shot.

Peter was startled.

"I'd like to discuss that argument in a little more detail," Lydia said.

She knew Peter was going to chew her out after the show for having the camera pan to him like that, but she couldn't care less. She _creamed_ him. The moment the camera was off her, she glanced at Stiles in the corner of the room, and grinned at the sight of him pumping his fists in the air.

\---

Allison had Thanksgiving at her apartment again that year. It'd become a tradition. Lydia brought beer to contribute, and arrived in the afternoon to find the boys in aprons, the kitchen in disarray, and Stiles with a turkey for an arm, because, yes, he'd stuck his arm in the bird up to the elbow, and was wielding it like a limb while talking in the voice of the Terminator.

Scott was clutching a bowl of lumpy, half-mashed potatoes, yelling, and brandishing a spoon to ward off Stiles.

Allison was drinking a bottle of wine at the table.

"I'm glad to see Thanksgiving's on schedule this year," Lydia said.

"Isaac said he'd pick up Chinese," Allison said.

Lydia hadn't ever gotten that excited for holidays. She didn't mind how rarely they had time off. It was kind of nice, though, to relax for an afternoon, to hang out with her friends, eating, and drinking, and goofing off.

And, in the end, Stiles's turkey wasn't half bad to eat.

After they ate, they wound up spending most of the night watching the _Indiana Jones_ movies. Allison had made the mistake of saying she'd never seen them. Lydia had to admit that there were worse films.

She took over the couch, and dozed for a bit, and didn't know where she came up with the idea. But with the lights off, and most of her friends quietly watching the movie, asleep, or gone, it occurred to her, and it seemed like the most obvious, brilliant idea. Her feet were in Stiles's lap, and she nudged his stomach with the heel of her foot.

He patted her calf in acknowledgement.

"I have an idea," she said, nudging at his stomach again impatiently to make him tear his eyes off the screen.

"Yeah?"

The light of the TV cast his face in glowing blue shadows, and he looked suddenly older in that moment, half-lit, and slumped on the sofa, relaxed, and sporting the traces of a five o'clock shadow.

Strangely, it was a good look on him.

"Erica was complaining about being Peter's errand boy at dinner, right? She said that she isn't just in charge of fetching for him, but that she keeps his books, and that she was the one who had to schedule his appointments at the dentist, and with a trainer at the gym, and at that fifth street spray tan place." She saw the start of a grin on his face. "You're thinking what I'm thinking, aren't you?"

\---

It took a bit of planning. Neither of them knew too much about spray tans. Lydia dragged Allison to Sugar Mist Tanning to investigate how it worked, and how they'd be able to sabotage it, and Stiles got online, and did a lot of research, going on forums about disasters with tanning. They plotted the details of everything over pizza at his apartment one night. It was complicated, but it was going to work.

Stiles texted Lydia on Saturday to let her know that he was on his way.

Erica had scheduled an appointment for Peter at eleven.

She found herself checking her phone every couple of minutes. Half an hour, and she was pacing her apartment. If he got caught, she didn't know how he'd talk his way out of trouble.

She heard the ping of a text on her phone, and grabbed it up, swearing at the realization that it was a text from Aiden.

She was in the _middle_ of something, dammit.

She was startled to hear from Stiles at last in the form of a _snapchat_ , but she opened it immediately, and choked on a laugh. It was a selfie. He had a shit-eating grin on his face, and was giving her two thumbs up, posing with an _Employees Only_ sign displayed prominently beside him.

She saved it to her phone just because.

She needed a distraction. She put on _Say Yes to the Dress,_ and did her toenails, and was outlining her speech for the Emerging Trends in Economics conference in Singapore when her phone began playing Darth Vader's theme. She snatched it up.

"Well?"

"He's orange!"

She grinned.

"It's bad. It's so, so bad. I'm talking, like, Ross in _Friends._ "

"I need the details," she said.

"It went exactly like we planned. He was pissed when he found out that Sandy had called in sick, and he refused to have someone else airbrush him, so he got in the booth, right, and there was no one else around, and I went to _town._ He started getting annoyed when I kept going, and going, and going, and I had to get the fuck out of there, but I saw him leave, and there's no way he is washing that color off immediately. He'll need to, like, _soak_ in chorine. He's a clementine."

"Did you get a picture?"

"Did I get a picture?!" She heard a muffled, fumbling noise. "I'm texting you!"

He sent her half a dozen blurry pictures that had clearly been taken from a distance, and from behind his Jeep.

He was right, though.

Peter looked like an angry, burned Cheeto.

She knew it wouldn't be quite so bad by Monday. Still. Even if he'd managed to scrub it off entirely by Monday, the look on his orange, blustering face in these photos was enough.

It seemed they'd _finally_ found a way to embarrass him.

He didn't actually show up at the office on Monday, and he wouldn't be coming in, apparently. Derek asked Scott to host the show that night. It was everything they could have hoped for.

Stiles was _gleeful_.

"How much did you pay Sandy not to show up to work?" Scott asked.

"Enough," Lydia said.

He shook his head in amusement.

"I can't believe you didn't get _caught_ ," Kira said, incredulous.

"What can I say?" Stiles sat back in his seat in that way of his, putting his hands behind his head. "I'm a master of stealth."

Scott was _amazing_ on the show that night. He was a wreck in the minutes right before, but he got it together, and he was calm and clear and articulate. He made Deaton proud.

They went to the bar to celebrate.

Stiles got a beer for Scott, and made him chug it, banging his fist on the table, and chanting, because he "earned" it, and when he managed to chug it, the boys all clapped his shoulders in congratulations, and he burped, and they were such _boys,_ the lot of them, and Lydia was filled with sudden, silly affection for these boys, _her_ boys.

She got a round of jolly rancher shots for everyone.

"To getting him off the show for at least _one_ night," she said, raising her shot.

There was a chorus of cheers, and when he'd done his shot, Stiles caught Lydia's gaze, and grinned, and she couldn't help grinning, too, because she was _happy_.

She wanted to kiss him.

"Who's getting next?" Isaac asked, slamming his glass on the table.

Stiles turned away from her with a laugh.

Her mouth was dry when she dropped her gaze to the table, breathing out.

It startled her when he touched a hand to her back. "What do you want?" he asked, slipping off his stool. She blinked. He started backwards towards the bar. "Presbyterian?" He tripped on a stool.

"Presbyterian, please," she said, fighting off a smile, and turning to the table again before he saw her lose.

\---

Peter didn't return that week. "He's got a cold," Derek said. Scott had to cover the latest Congressional blunder for the show, and he had a panel of experts that included Lydia interview members of the House Committee on Education and the Workforce, and it was the best week they'd had in a year.

To put the icing on the cake, Saturday was the office Christmas party.

The party wasn't generally much to write home about. There was a lot of people standing around, and the same Christmas music CD on repeat, and they always had to listen to a series of speeches that went on, and on, rambling, and boring the pants off everyone in attendance. It was an excuse to dress up, though. Lydia wore a green, backless Givenchy dress this year, pearl drop earrings, and heels she'd gotten from Neiman Marcus last weekend while shopping with Allison. And, of course, there was always a lot of booze at these faux-fancy, work soirees.

The point was that it was a _party_ , and Peter was usually the center of attention at every office party, and, tonight, he was nowhere in sight.

"It's a freakin' Christmas miracle," Erica said.

"You're welcome," Lydia said.

She was getting a glass of champagne from the bar when she got pulled into a conversation with an EP from one of the gossipy, news-light morning talk shows, and was trapped for a while.

She glanced at her circle of friends.

Allison was pressed into Scott's side. She was convinced that Scott was planning to propose to her soon, and she'd confided to Lydia that she thought he might try to do it tonight. She was right. Lydia had helped him pick out the ring. It was tasteful, and gorgeous, of course, and Allison's style.

Scott was visibly nervous about it, patting his pocket, and swallowing, downing a glass of champagne, and patting his pocket again.

It was cute.

He'd cleaned up nicely that night, too.

The lot of them looked good. Boyd was wearing a _tie_ , and Erica had on a dress that was way more tasteful than Lydia expected from her, and Kira had her hair up in a sleek, braided twist that matched her black, slim-fitting dress. Stiles, though, had put on a _suit_ , and, well.

He looked really, _really_ good.

She'd always had an appreciation for the way his arms looked with his sleeves sloppily rolled up, and she'd admit that he looked better than most in a t-shirt, jeans, and a flannel shirt. This, though? This was hot.

 _He_ was hot.

At that moment, he was half-listening to something that Erica was saying, and half-mouthing the words of _All I Want for Christmas is You_ to himself.

She had to taper a smile.

"Excuse me," she said, interrupting the EP. He blinked. She'd listened to him drone on drearily for at least five minutes, however, and she'd smiled thinly at his few inept, unwanted attempts at flirting, which meant she'd done her charity for the evening. She was finished. She turned on her heel, and made a beeline for her friends, grabbing a glass of champagne from a tray she passed on the way.

In the time it took her, Isaac had apparently said something to Stiles to enrage him.

". . . dialogue," Stiles said, cutting his hand through the air.

"The fact remains that you take the suspense out of any future D.C. films," Isaac protested. "Why would they do that? It fucks with her actual comic origins, and it ruins—"

"You can have suspense in a film that doesn't revolve around which character is going to kick the bucket!"

" _Wonder Woman_?" Lydia said, slotting into the group.

"Yup," Allison said.

The two of them had been at each other's throats about the movie for _weeks_. Stiles liked it; Isaac didn't. Neither of them could tolerate the other's _wrong_ opinion.

"People just act like it's great because they're _supposed_ to," Isaac said.

"You aren't serious right now," Stiles said, raising his voice over Isaac's. "People act like it's great because _it's great_! Seriously, dude? _Seriously_? I will _list_ the reasons. I mean, _first,_ there's the cinematography." He began to tick off his fingers.

She took her clutch from him.

She'd heard this argument from him before. Repeatedly. She was pretty sure Isaac had heard it, too, but that wasn't stopping Stiles.

She had a text.

It was from Aiden. She rolled her eyes. It was a picture of his dick, _of course_.

"Aiden?" Allison said, leaning in.

"Unfortunately."

"I don't see why you can't just block his number."

"He's my insider for finance in D.C." She sighed, and shoved her phone into her clutch. "You'd think he'd have gotten the message by now that my interest in him is _professional_."

"You should just tell him you've got a boyfriend," Allison said.

"I shouldn't have to make up a boyfriend to get a guy to stop sending me pictures of his dick."

"It's not like you can give him a taste of his own medicine. And if it gets him off your back, who does it hurt? There's a difference between upholding your principles, and getting a dick pic guy to leave you alone."

"Oh, my _God_!" Stiles was _hopping_ with outrage at Isaac's most recent comment about costuming choices. "I cannot _begin_ to tell you how wrong you are right now!"

"I think I need more alcohol," Erica said.

The music slowly faded off.

"May I have your attention, please?" It was Meredith. "It's that time of the night. Speeches! I promise that we'll only interrupt your festivities for a couple of minutes." She laughed, and it was a high, nervous sound.

Lydia liked Meredith, but she had no idea how the woman had gotten into HR.

"To start," Meredith said, "I'd like to hand the microphone to the president of our company . . ."

The speeches lasted longer than a couple of minutes.

In the middle of a speech from the CEO, Lydia's phone buzzed softly from within her clutch. She didn't open the message after seeing it was another from Aiden. She closed out of the phone, and shoved it back in the clutch, looking up, and catching her gaze on Stiles.

He was staring into space.

She decided.

The moment the speeches were over, she grabbed him by the elbow. "Come on," she said. She marched him away from everyone before he could start lecturing Isaac again.

 _Jingle Bell Rock_ began playing over the speakers.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"I need a favor."

"Okay."

There were people in the hallway, and she contemplated the bathroom, but ended up taking her ID key card from her purse, and swiping them into the studio. It was quiet other than the sound of cheery Christmas music leaking in from the newsroom, and it was empty, dimly lit with only emergency lights on. She closed the door, and turned to him with her mind fully made up.

"What's up?"

She met his gaze. "I need a picture of your dick."

He stared.

She raised her eyebrows.

"I'm sorry," he said, clearing his throat. "I thought you just told me you needed a picture of my—"

"Dick. Yes. It was Allison's idea."

He opened his mouth, and closed it. He tilted his head, and touched his hand to his mouth. He started to speak, and stopped.

"Here's the thing," she said. "I've been getting some unsolicited pictures lately, and I've realized the way to get him to stop is to send _him_ one. I don't have a dick, which is why I'm talking to you."

"Can't you just—like—just get one off the Internet?" he asked.

"Do _you_ want to Google dick pictures?"

He nodded. " _Right_. Right, that's a pretty good point."

There was a pause.

"See, but—"

"If you won't do it, who am I supposed to ask?" She put a hand on her hip. "It's not that big of a deal. Seriously. But do you know what it's like to get a picture of _dick_ in the middle of the afternoon from a guy you hooked up with _once_? And it's not like the pictures have happened just a couple of times. He sends them _constantly._ And I can't just block him, because he's a valuable work contact."

He sighed.

She knew she had him. "You can take a picture on your phone, and send it to me, or I can take one." She began to take her phone out of her clutch.

"No." He covered her hand with his. "Just—okay, _I'll_ take the picture, and send it to him for you, okay?"

"On my phone?"

"Yes."

She beamed. "You're the best."

"You owe me." He pointed at her. "You owe me, like, a lot."

"Deal."

He took her phone from her.

Again, a beat.

"Well, I can't do it when you're _watching_ me," he said.

She spun on her heel. "Better?"

He huffed. "I'm just going to . . ." She heard him walk slightly away from her. "This is wrong," he muttered. She could hear him unbuckling his belt. "I feel like a predator."

"Relax," she said. "I _asked_ you to do it."

He said something under his breath.

She bit her lip, and, after a moment, had to ask. "Can you get it up? Or do you need my—?"

"I'm _fine_!" he yelled.

She pursed her lips to suppress a smile.

It was couple more minutes before she heard the sound of him zipping his pants. "Okay. You can turn around."

She did.

He was walking slowly towards her with his eyes on the phone. "I'm sending it to . . . ? Wait, I see. Aiden, right?" He nodded. "There. Done. Sent." He closed out of the phone, and handed it to her.

"Great," she said, and she swiped the screen on again, pulling up her messages with Aiden.

"Hey!"

"You had to know I was going to look at it."

He crossed his arms. "This is an invasion of privacy," he said. "I do you a favor, and you—"

"I like it."

"Oh, my God!"

She nodded. "The lighting, the angle, and you _did_ get it up—"

"I'm leaving!"

She laughed, and grabbed his arm. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said, cupping his cheek. "You did me a favor, and I owe you. I'm sorry. I won't look at it again." She schooled her features.

He sighed. "The things I do for you."

She smiled, and lowered her hand to his shoulder. "Thank you," she said, softer. She could always count on Stiles.

He was close.

She found herself noticing the sweep of his eyelashes. He swallowed, and his lips seemed to part just slightly, drawing her gaze, and her own throat went dry in that moment. She looked up quickly, meeting his gaze.

"Lydia."

She kissed him.

He was startled. But just when she was about to pull away from him, he clasped her face, and _kissed_ her, and she curled her fingers in the collar of his jacket, and opened her mouth under the slant of his lips. He pushed a hand into her hair, pressing in closer to her.

They break apart just to catch their breath.

"I guess you _really_ liked the picture," he panted, and he grinned.

She slipped a hand between them, and ran it up his stomach, up his chest. "What are you going to do about it?" She tilted her face up to catch his gaze.

His eyes widened with shock.

She raised her eyebrows.

He surged in, crushing a kiss to her lips.

His hands slid up her back, and down, palming her ass, and he began to back her up. Her heel hit on something, and she would've pitched backwards, but he hoisted her up suddenly. She breathed a laugh, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, and giggling into his hair when he pressed his face into her neck, and carried her stumbling up the steps of the stage, dropping her on the desk.

She tossed her phone down across the desk, and reached for him, curled her hand around his tie to drag him closer, and kissed him.

She'd expected he'd be an eager, messy kisser, had expected a lot of tongue, and flailing, and she'd been fine with that, been prepared to show him how to kiss her properly. She'd been so, so wrong. She was used to the way men were careless with kissing when sex was on the table. Stiles, though. His hand was warm on her neck, and the smell of him was intoxicating, and he was kissing her deeply, kissing her like this was the point, and he never, ever wanted to stop.

She was light-headed from his kisses.

She slipped her hands under his jacket, starting to push it off, and he got the message, shrugging it off. He drew away from her to loosen his tie, and toss it, to unbutton his shirt, and she took the opportunity to slip the out of the straps of her dress, letting it pool at her waist, and he was back, pushing a hand into her hair, and kissing her, kissing and kissing her. It startled when he curled his hands around the backs of her knees, and dragged her to the edge of the desk, bringing her flush against his arousal. She breathed in sharply at the rush of _want_ that swept over her. He kissed her, and bent his head, kissing her neck, and she dug her nails into the muscles of his back, and sank a hand into his hair, tilting her neck, and closing her eyes, gasping a smile to the ceiling.

His hands fumbled with the clasp of her bra, and the moment he had it off, his hands were on her breasts.

"You—" He kissed her. "—are—" He kissed her. "— _incredible._ "

"I know."

She felt his grin against her lips, and he tilted his head, kissing her jar, and her neck, squeezing her breasts. She arched into his touch. The pads of his thumbs were rough on her nipples, and his teeth scraped her pulse, and with him between her legs, she could feel him pressed hard against her, and she scraped her nails down his back, and rocked her hips. He swore. She dragged his face up to kiss her on the mouth.

"Do you have a condom?" she asked, breathless.

"I—" He blinked.

Impatiently, she reached down between them to grab him through his pants.

" _Fuck_." He nodded. "Um, yes." He kissed her roughly. "I've got one in my wallet. Just. Just!" He fumbled to yank his wallet from the pocket of his pants.

She took it from him, and found the condom.

He began to unbuckle his belt, to shuck his trousers.

She looked at him in that moment, at lines of him, at the smooth, taught skin, and his arms, and the muscles in his stomach.

She drew her gaze up to his face.

He was panting, and his lips were swollen from kissing, and there was a look in his eyes that she'd never, ever seen, that was dark and wanting and _wonderful_.

" _God_ ," he breathed, "you—"

She reached for him, and he was already surging towards her, and taking her face in his hands again, kissing her forcefully. She scrambled to pull up her dress up her legs, shifting to lift her hips, and get it fucking out of the way, and his hands were warm sliding up her thighs, and tugging at her underwear, and she lifted her hips in permission for that, too. He pulled it down her legs, and she tore the condom wrapper open with her teeth, and he pushed his boxers off quickly, sort of falling out of them, and she couldn't help laughing.

He kissed her.

She took him in her hand, and rolled the condom on.

She gasped into his mouth when he cupped her head with one hand, kissing her hotly, and the other slipped down between her legs, and his finger brushed a light, teasing line over her slit.

"You're—" he started.

" _Soaked_ ," she panted, "and if you don't do something about it, I swear to _God_ —"

He ran the pad of his finger up, and down, _torturing_ her, and when he sank a finger into her at last, she rocked into his hand desperately. His thumb began circling her clit, and she arched up, pressing her breasts into his chest. He pulled his hand away suddenly, and his fingers were wet when he grasped her cheek so that he was holding her face in both his hands, kissing her.

The tip of him bumped up against her slit.

She shifted, and reached down between them, starting to guide him into her.

One of his hands smacked against the table behind her, and the other was gripping her thigh, hiking it up, and his mouth went slack against hers when he sank into her completely.

"You feel so _fucking_ good," he murmured.

She squeezed his ass. "I bet it'd feel better if you moved."

He didn't have to be told twice.

She fisted a hand in his hair when he began to fuck her, slow at first, and when she wrapped her legs around his waist, and they found the angle that brought him deeper, that made her breath caught with every thrust, he began to pick up the pace, and she kissed him.

"This—" He breathed a laugh.

"What?"

"This song isn't usually on my let's get it on playlist," he said, and he dropped his face, and, suddenly, he was panting the words to _Run, Rudolph, Run_ into her neck, " _Run, run Rudolph, Santa's got to make it to town!_ "

She laughed.

" _Run, run Rudolph, reeling like a merry-go-round_!"

"Shut _up,_ " she gasped

He grinned, and pressed sloppy kisses to her throat, and her cheek, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and tilted her face into a wet, hungry kiss.

He reached a hand between them, giving her breast a quick squeeze before going lower, and when his thumb brushed her clit, she sucked in a breath. "Yes," she breathed. His thrusts grew sloppy, and his thumb was rubbing teasing circles into her clit, and she dug her nails into his arm, and threw her head back when everything went suddenly white with pleasure.

He dropped his head to her shoulder.

She brushed a hand through his hair, scraping her nails against his scalp, and arching into him, rolling her hips.

He groaned into her skin. " _Fuck_ , Lydia." His hands were bruising on her thighs, and he was thrusting into her so hard it was going to leave her sore in the morning. "Lydia," he panted, "Lydia, God, _Lydia._ " His body went rigid against her, and he was coming, and she held him to her.

Her heartbeat had steadied out slightly when he lifted his head.

"Hi," he said.

She cupped his jaw, and rubbed her thumb against his red, swollen lips just because. "Hi."

He gave her a quick, sweet peck on the lips.

They untangled from each other, and while he took off the condom, and cleaned up, she grabbed her bra, and fastened it on again, pulling up the sleeves of her dress. The sweat was cooling on her skin, and it made goosebumps rise on her arms. She found herself watching him dress. She watched him pulling on his boxers, and pick up his trousers, pulling them on, and fastening his belt. He glanced up, and smiled as soon as he saw her gaze.

It was such a sweet, _earnest_ smile, she was tempted to smile, too.

"I don't suppose you know what you've done with my underwear, do you?" she asked.

He blinked. "Um." To her amusement, he rubbed at the back of his neck, and his gaze began darting around in search of them.

She picked up her phone, and was about to hop off the desk to search for them with him when she heard the sound of footsteps, and _voices_ , and her face snapped up towards the door. _Shit_. She glanced at Stiles, and saw the same, sudden panic on his face.

He grabbed up his shirt, and his coat.

"Underwear!" she hissed.

He spun. "I threw it—it was—got it!" He snatched up her underwear.

The door was starting to open.

They were both sweaty, half-dressed messes in that moment, and she didn't even think before grabbing his arm, and yanking, and they wound up crouching out of sight behind the desk.

"What's in here?" Allison said, amused.

"This is the very first place I saw you," Scott said.

Next to her, Lydia felt Stiles relax with the realization that it was only the two of them. Didn't he realize? She dug her fingers into his arm when it seemed like he was about to rise up, and announce their presence.

" _Right_ ," Allison said, sounding fondly puzzled.

"Do you remember that day?" Scott asked. "You were getting shown the ropes by Derek, and you, um, you came in here, and Talia was in here, and asked you for a pen, and you, like, panicked, and—"

"You slipped a pen to me, I remember," Allison said, a smile in her voice at that.

Stiles jerked with sudden, wide-eyed understanding.

She rolled her eyes.

It seemed the two of them were going to listen to Scott propose while they were hiding sweaty, sexed up, and half-naked behind the studio stage desk.

"I think there was a little part of me that fell in love with you right that first moment I saw you," Scott said.

" _Scott_ ," Allison said, soft.

It wasn't as bad as it could've been. In fact, it was actually kind of sweet to get to listen to Scott ramble nervously about how much he loved Allison, and to hear the slow, trembling realization dawn in Allison's voice that this was happening, that Scott was proposing to her. Still, she kind of felt guilty for overhearing a definitely private moment.

Stiles was wiping at his cheeks after Allison said yes.

He was ridiculous.

"Oh!" Allison said. "That's Lydia's clutch! I bet she's looking for it."

They left.

Stiles blew out a breath. "Lucky they didn't decide to have celebratory sex in here, huh?" He looked at her.

She huffed. "Come on. She's going to be looking for me. Let's got out of here." She rose to her feet.

They finished getting dressed. She tried to fix her hair, but he'd done a number on it. She did her best, though. He didn't look much better. She straightened his tie for him, and wiped her lipstick off his face.

"I think this is as good as it's going to get," she said.

He nodded. "Hey, so." He cleared his throat. "We just . . ." He jerked his head to the side like he was nodding at the fact that they'd just had sex.

She bit her lip. "Yeah." They'd done that.

"Yeah." He nodded. "Right."

"It's been a while for me," she said, feeling a flush of uncertainty, "so I guess things got away from me. Sorry. I didn't mean to jump you."

"No! It's—no, it's fine."

"Okay, so . . ."

"Let's go!" he said. "Big night for Scott. Got to congratulate him, and everything."

She followed him.

Outside, the party was carrying on like they'd never left. They'd hardly stepped back into the newsroom when Allison shouted for Lydia. She was _glowing_ with happiness, and Lydia hugged her, and listened to her gush, and admitted that, yes, she'd known Scott's plans.

"Hey, I've got your clutch! Scott, what did I do with Lydia's clutch?"

"Oh?"

"I found it in the studio," she explained.

"Right," Lydia said. "I went in there earlier to text Aiden." She bit her lip, and smiled in thanks at Scott when he handed her the small silver purse.

What else could she say?

_I was in there having sex with Stiles._

Her gaze flickered away from Allison in search of him. He was heading her way with a tray of drinks that he'd commandeered from someone. She stared at him. They'd had _sex_. She'd had sex with _Stiles_ , and, suddenly, the reality of that was sinking in, and she was struck with the fact that she had no idea what was supposed to happen next.

\---

She got a text from Aiden when she was brushing her teeth that night. _you could have just told me you weren't interested_. She rolled her eyes. She _had_. But, apparently, he was unable to grasp the concept until she shoved a dick in his face. Idiot. She spat out her toothpaste.

It was impossible not to look at the picture that Stiles had texted him.

She'd never been much for liking the look of a dick. Her interest in them was utilitarian, thank you very much. But when she peeked at that picture, a flush crept stupidly up her neck.

_She'd had sex with Stiles._

She closed out quickly, and looked up, found herself looking at her reflection in the mirror: her hair was loose, was messy from being up earlier, and she'd taken her makeup off, leaving a pale, tired face behind, and she was in the pajamas that her mother had bought her, that Allison called Lydia's seemly pajamas, because they were modest and lacy and old-fashioned. Jackson used to look at her this way, and say, _I guess you're giving up for the night_. She'd scoff at him, and pretend she didn't give a rat's ass what he thought, but there was a reason that she'd researched good makeup to sleep in, that she'd been careful to wear her hair cute and curled and down if she planned on spending the night with him.

She should have broken up with Jackson long before he broke up with her.

Guys were awful.

Stiles was different. He wasn't a guy. Stiles was her _friend_.

She didn't know what had come over her.

It'd been a while for her, yes, and he'd looked _really_ good in that suit, and she'd just been in such a good mood, so ready to feel happy and carefree and _good_.

But.

They were friends.

(He'd dated a producer from one of ACN's new, trendy nature programs a few months ago. Malia. Lydia hadn't given much thought to the girl until he'd brought her to the bar to meet the group. She was a tall, pretty girl, brash, and tactless, one of those girls who was "one of the boys," and Lydia was, in a word, _unimpressed_. She played with his hand a lot at the table, intertwining their fingers, and brushing her thumb against the scar on his palm, and drawing Lydia's gaze again, and again, and again. It wasn't until her palm had skated up his forearm, though, that Lydia had thought _get your claws the fuck off him_. She'd gotten pretty drunk after that, and made out with a stranger she'd never, ever see again.

After they'd split, she'd told Stiles that he was better off without her. "She wasn't smart enough for you, or nearly as attractive as you are," she'd said. He'd fallen off of his stool at the bar.)

She couldn't let anything happen between them.

It had been good. She closed her eyes, and felt the heat of his mouth on her neck, and the way he'd grinned against the swell of her breast, and his hands, _God_ , his hands, she should have known he'd be good with his hands. It had been so, so _good_.

But she wasn't going to throw away her friendship with Stiles just because of the way he'd hoisted her up onto the desk.

She was going to go to bed, that was what she was going to do. And, tomorrow, she was going to go to brunch with Allison to celebrate the engagement of her absolute favorite person with the sweetest of men, and if Stiles was there, all the better. They were friends, and they would stay friends.

\---

Brunch was just the women from work. They had mimosas, and looked at a dozen bridal magazines that Lydia had brought to the restaurant. It was a lot of fun.

She heard from Stiles that night. Sort of. Her phone pinged with a notification from _Words with Friends._

Stiles had played a word. _Erinaceous_. She had to admit that she didn't know that one, although she wouldn't admit it to him. It was irrelevant. She needed to come up with something equally ridiculous to play in reply, and something that returned her to the lead. He'd won their last game, and she couldn't let him win twice in a row, or he really never would shut up about being the reigning vocabulary champion.

\---

Peter was back on Monday. She arrived to a quiet, tense newsroom, which was never a very good sign. She glanced up, and saw him in his office.

 _Great_.

Stiles was drumming a pen on his desk, half-looking at his computer, and half-glancing at the elevator. He saw Lydia, and before she could get a word in, greeted her with, "Talia called Scott into her office as soon as he got in this morning." He put the tip of his pen in his mouth, and began to jiggle his leg, glancing at the elevator.

"Did it seem like it was anything bad?" She sat at her desk.

He shrugged.

"How's Peter seem?"

"Chipper." He shot a glare at Peter in his office. "You'd think he was just off on vacation."

She sighed. It seemed a week was the most they could buy, and now it was back to the business of dealing with him day in, day out. She pulled up her email.

The whole desk rocked with the movement when Stiles jerked up, because the elevators had opened, and Scott came slowly into the newsroom. He was pale, and she knew in an instant that whatever Talia had wanted to talk to him about, it wasn't good. Stiles was already on his feet, and Allison was crossing the room, too, and they crowded him, cutting him from Lydia's view.

" _What_?" Stiles said, loud.

"Oh, my God," Kira said, and when Lydia glanced at her, she saw that Kira was gaping at her email.

She checked, and she had an email from Talia to all of ACN.

It informed _the staff of ACN_ that sources were confidential, and information on stories was to stay within the confines of the office, and sharing any information with competitors was grounds for termination.

She pushed to her feet, heading for the huddle of her friends.

"— _swore_ I didn't," Scott said, shaking his head.

" _Babe_ ," Allison said.

"We need a lawyer," Stiles said. "I'm serious. They can't just fire you without actual _proof_."

"What?" Lydia asked, putting it together.

"I just—I need to get out of here," Scott said. "I need to think. Or." He shook his head again, and when Allison made to stop him, he paused, and squeezed her hand, and his smile was tremulous, and it made Lydia's heart clench painfully with sympathy for him.

"Dude, I'm going to talk to a lawyer," Stiles said.

"Thanks. I'm just . . ."

"Take a minute," Lydia said.

He nodded, and started for the door of the newsroom, pushing a shaky hand through his hair.

"This is _unbelievable_ ," Allison breathed.

"McCall!"

"No," Stiles said. "No. He—"

Peter stood at the railing of the landing that overlooked the newsroom. "I expected better from you," he said, looking at Scott, and though his words were solemn, his gaze with bright with gratification. He shook his head at Scott in calm, exaggerated disappointment.

Across the newsroom, a wave of whispers had broken out.

The email was about _Scott_.

"He didn't _do_ it, asshole," Stiles said, blistering.

"Stiles," Scott said.

"Careful." Peter had the gall to _smile_. "Continue to defend the man who _betrayed_ our network, and we might be forced to investigate if you were involved, too."

In that moment, she was positive. He'd done this. Somehow, he'd convinced his sister that Scott had sold news to a competitor, and he'd done it expressly to have him fired. "You say that like Scott was investigated, and proof was found," Lydia said, "which is _impossible_ , because Scott wouldn't do that." Surely there wasn't a soul in this newsroom who believed he would.

"Do you mean to imply that my sister has fired a man without due cause?" he asked. "Wow, Barbie. Even for you, that's bold."

"Peter," Derek said.

"Nephew," Peter said, congenial.

"I think it's time everyone got to work. You know, _work_? The reason you're here? The thing you're paid to do?" He glanced sharply around the newsroom, and people looked quickly away, turning to their computers. "If anyone has concerns about the memo that was emailed to staff, please see HR to ensure your voice is heard. Otherwise, we have a show to put on tonight."

"Of course," Peter said, and, with a smirk, he returned to his office.

" _Bastard_ ," Allison said, and her gaze went hurriedly to Scott, but he was already on his way out of the office, and none of them could stop the door from closing after him.

She couldn't make herself focus after that. She tried, and she couldn't. There was work she needed to do, but it was impossible.

Peter had gotten him _fired_.

They'd been trying to mess with Peter, but they'd never taken it as far as that. And even if they had, he deserved it. Hell, he could have gone after her, or Stiles, and it might have been justified after what they'd done to him.

Scott, though?

Stiles pushed away from his desk with a huff. "I need to go for a walk," he announced. "Get a coffee, or something." He looked at her. "You want a Frappuccino? Brownie? A baseball bat to beat the shit out of Shredder?" He raised his eyebrows.

"I'll come with you," she said, grabbing her purse, and rising to her feet.

In the street, he shoved his hands into his pockets, and they fell into step together. "I _am_ talking to a lawyer," he said. "There's no way Peter has proof that Scott sold information. If he does, it's doctored, and I can prove it." They stopped at a light, and he rolled on the balls of his feet.

"Do you think it's our fault?" she asked.

"What?" He looked at her in alarm.

"He might be oblivious about a lot of things, but he must have known that we were messing with him."

"No." He shook his head. "He isn't some great mastermind who'd go after Scott to hurt us. If he knew we'd been fucking with him, he'd go after _us_. He did this 'cause—'cause he's an ass. 'Cause—you know what? I bet he did this because Scott did such a good job last week, and got so much praise from, like, commentators, and Twitter, and—and he had to fuck that up, had to get rid of the competition. I mean, Scott was _supposed_ to have his job, and he's got to know that."

"Right." She swallowed, and looked at him. "And who put Scott in the bull's eye?"

"Lydia, this isn't on us."

"It's a little bit on us. We did this. We got Scott _fired_." The light had changed, but they weren't going anywhere. "You don't even feel a little bit responsible for that?"

"No!"

She shook her head, and glanced away from him again.

He touched her arm, brushed her elbow with the tips of his fingers. "I'm serious. We didn't do this. _Peter_ did. And we're going to get him. For real. No more stupid pranks that he can just ignore, or talk his way out of. Or, like, hide in his apartment for a week, and fix. We're going to prove that he's an asshole _and_ awful at his job, and get _him_ fired." His touch was tentative, but his gaze was certain on her face.

"We'll fix this," she said.

" _Yes_."

She nodded.

His thumb rubbed her arm lightly, and when she looked at him, she couldn't help it. She stepped in closer, and he didn't hesitate either, wrapping his arms around her, and folding her into a hug. She turned her face into his neck, and closed her eyes, breathing out shakily.

They'd fix this. Stiles was wrong; this _was_ their fault. But they'd fix it. No matter what it took. They'd get rid of Peter, and they'd get Scott his job back.

\---

There was an email that proved Scott's guilt. Apparently, he'd sent an email to an EP at an ABC news show, and when Stiles looked into it, there was no way to deny that the email was legitimately sent from Scott's email. Somehow, Peter had hacked it.

"They can't fire him over _one_ email that someone else could easily have sent!" Erica said, incredulous.

"It looks like they can, though," Allison said.

"This is bullshit," Boyd said.

"What can we do?" Isaac asked. "Name it. Scott's had our backs from day one."

There _wasn't_ anything for any of them to do.

It turned out that even Derek had gone to the bat for Scott, had told his mother that he knew Scott, and he didn't believe Scott would _ever_ betray the show like that.

It hadn't been enough.

Lydia got the idea during the broadcast that night. She was watching him charm and posture, and he was always on point in front of the camera, was always so careful about what he said, what he did, and that was how he got away with everything. Just like that, she knew what they should do.

Stiles was gone for the night by the time she left the studio.

The moment she saw him in the morning, she told him. "I have an idea."

"Is it murder?"

"We just get him to admit it. It won't be hard to goad him into it. I'm sure he's _proud_ of himself. I'll get him to say that he did it, hacked Scott's email, sent the information to that EP. And I'll record it secretly, so that there's no way for his sister to ignore it."

He stared.

"Well?"

"Lydia, you're so smart, I could kiss you right now!"

She blinked. "Do not kiss me."

"No, not gonna." He rocked on the balls of his feet, and surged in suddenly to smack a kiss to her cheek. "Did it anyway!" And, just like that, he was running off.

"Where are you going?"

"I have to tell Scott to stop applying for local news jobs!"

She let out a huff.

Her heart was beating a little too fast, but she wasn't going to think about that right now. She was being silly. There were more important things to worry about like, you know, making that lying liar who lies _pay_ for going after Scott.

To start, she needed to find the recorder she used to use for interviews in her time writing for a finance news website.

They did it that afternoon. Stiles was going to make sure that no one interrupted them before she got his admission. Lydia checked her lipstick, and her hair, and unbuttoned the top of her blouse, because Peter always got bolder when he was hitting on her, and she needed him to be bold, needed him to crow boldly about what he'd done. She took the elevator, and on the landing, she glanced down below at Stiles. He gave her a thumbs up.

She knocked on his door, and went in without a pause.

"Excuse me?" Peter said.

"We need to talk," she said, shutting the door with purpose. "Scott is going to sue ACN. I don't want that to happen. I don't want _my_ show to suffer because of what you did. But he doesn't have any other recourse after he was fired for something he didn't _do._ "

"He did, though." Peter was amused. "He _did_ do it, and there's proof."

"There's no proof that the email came from him."

He sighed. "First, McCall isn't about to sue anyone for anything. He'd have to have a _spine_ for that. Second, you know we have proof that he sent an email of information. So. What's your argument? That his email was hacked? That he was _framed_? Okay, Jessica Rabbit." He smirked. "I'm sure that'll hold up in a court of law. Third, why do you _care_? Last I checked, McCall only had eyes for your friend. And you know you're _way_ hotter than he is, right?"

"I _care_ ," she snarled, "because you get away with a lot, but you aren't getting away with this."

"This?"

"You know what you did."

"I really don't know what you're talking about," he said. "I mean, I'll admit that I had my suspicions about him, and I told my sister. I like to think that you would have made the same choice in my situation."

"It must have bothered you how much praise Scott got last week," she said, because she needed another tactic. If the temptation for him to goad her into getting angry wasn't enough to make him flaunt the truth, she'd have to goad _him_ into getting angry, and blurting the truth in the heat of the moment. "There's a reason your job was supposed to go to Scott before you used nepotism to take it for yourself."

"I used to think he had potential," Peter said, an edge in his voice. "But, truth is, he doesn't have the _balls_ for reporting real, hard news. _I_ do."

"It _really_ bothered you how much people preferred him to you, didn't it?"

"It would if that were the case."

"It was. It _is_. You can try to deny it, but you know I'm right."

He leaned forward slightly in his chair, and, in that moment, there was something almost frightening about him. "Let's be clear. This is _my_ job. It'll always be my job until the day _I_ decide otherwise. McCall? He's out of the picture. _He_ fucked up, and his shot at my job is gone. And if you think you can trick me into admitting to something I _didn't_ do, you're as dumb as you look." His gaze flickered over her, and his lip curled up in a kind of sneer before he sat back in his seat.

Her hands had fisted at her sides.

"You can go now," he said.

She turned on her heel, stalking out of his office.

He was _despicable._ She should have known that he wouldn't just admit what he'd done. But when he was oblivious to every other attempt to mess with him, why was he suddenly so aware of what she was doing this time? They couldn't catch a break with that misogynistic, egotistical _asshat_ of a man. He was a _parasite_.

Downstairs, Stiles was jittery with excitement. "Did you get it?"

"No."

He blinked.

"He knew what I was trying to do. And he made it _painfully_ clear that he was the one who got Scott fired, but that he wasn't going to be stupid enough to say it to my face."

"Shit." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "It's okay."

Somehow, this was where they ended up every single time.

He touched a hand to her shoulder.

She glanced at him.

"It was a good idea," he said.

"If it was a good idea, it would have _worked._ "

"It might still. We just went about it wrong. We need to get somebody he likes to talk to him. Derek! I'll talk to him. I can totally wear him down. He loves Scott!"

"He does," she said.

"It's not over 'til it's over," Stiles said, squeezing her shoulder.

She wanted to cover his hand with her own.

"Stiles!" Kira said, calling his name from across the newsroom, and his hand slipped away from her shoulder, because there was still work to do, still a show to produce.

\---

She had actually tried to do something about Peter before. Back when he'd first started, she'd been disgusted with him, and she'd gone to HR, because sexual harassment wasn't something they could brush off. She'd been routed to Talia Hale. The president of ACN had listened attentively to everything Lydia had to say, and she'd told Lydia that she'd deal with the situation immediately. In a way, she had. After that conversation, Peter was forced to reign in his innuendos, and his pursuit of her, and of every attractive woman in the newsroom, for that matter, and, since that time, he hadn't done more than wink at Lydia on occasion.

He should've been fired, though.

But when Lydia had said that to Jackson, he'd scoffed. "Guys are allowed to _flirt_ at the office," he'd said. He'd told her that he'd known she wouldn't be able to hack an environment like ACN.

She'd sucked it up after that, because she hadn't wanted to prove him right.

\---

She hosted a lavish engagement party for Scott and Allison at her apartment. After all, she was the maid of honor, and they needed a good, fancy distraction from everything else. She put it together in a matter of days: had it catered, sent out invitations that requested that guests dress formally, and decided to lean into the season, decorating with poinsettias, and following a general color scheme of gold with splashes of red.

Stiles showed up in a bowtie.

He _would_.

He straightened it needlessly. "How do I look?" He had on suspenders, too.

It was lucky she had a lint roller on hand, because he needed it. _Badly._ She had to hand it to him, though: he looked stupidly good.

"You look beautiful," he said.

"I know."

Overall, she deemed the party a success.

The food was superb, Lydia cut off anyone who started to drink a little too much, and when it was time for speeches, Stiles gave one that was funny, and sweet, and made Allison tear up a little.

And when things were starting to peter off, Scott had Lydia turn up the music, and he asked Allison to dance.

It was cute. Scott could be almost too saccharine for Lydia at times, was like a lead from one of the sappy chick flicks that Lydia used to love. But when he was twirling Allison around the room, Lydia had to give him credit. He was cute. He was enamored with Allison, and he'd probably be making her that happy fifty years from now.

Even if they couldn't fix everything at ACN, Scott would be okay. He'd have Allison.

By the bar, Stiles was doing some spastic, middle school dance.

She watched him.

It was a wonder he hadn't taken someone's eye out yet. He glanced up, and saw her, grinning, and, of course, decided that he was going to dance his way over to her. She greeted him with her hands on her hips, and a perfectly arched eyebrow.

"How do you like these moves?" he asked, jerking his head to the side like a turtle.

She grabbed his arm from the air. "Come on." She led him to the space she'd cleared for mingling, and stepped in closer to dance with him.

He settled a hand on her hip, and clasped her hand in his other.

"Better," she said.

He smiled. " _Little darling,_ " he sang, " _it seems like years since it's been here_." He raised his arm, and twirled her.

"You know," she told him, "I like the bowtie."

"I knew I'd win you over."

She laughed.

It was late in the evening when Allison left Scott's side at last, and came to stand by Lydia. Most of the food was gone, and the dancing was done, and people were starting to leave. Lydia would remain a polite, poised hostess until the very last guest had left, however.

"How did you enjoy your party?"

"It's better than the awkward dinner party my parents are planning, that's for sure," Allison said. "Seriously, though. This is amazing. It was nice to have a break from—" She shook her head. "— _everything_ for a night. _Thank you_. You're going to help me plan the wedding, right?"

"Obviously."

She smiled. "I have to say, I didn't expect Stiles's speech to be the highlight of the night."

"Let's just hope he can pull out something like that at your reception," Lydia said, glancing at him across the room.

"Hey, um." She waited until Lydia looked at her. "Can I ask you a question without getting you mad at me?" She leaned in slightly. "Did something . . . _happen_ with you two?"

"Happen?" Lydia said.

"It's just that it seems like you two have just been a little bit different around each other lately. I catch him looking at you a lot more, and, honestly, I catch _you_ looking at him a lot more. It's made me wonder if you—you kissed, or if he told you that he had feelings for you."

"We're friends."

"Right."

"We did have sex, though."

" _What_?" Allison's face broke into a grin. "When?"

"The office Christmas party." She thought about telling Allison that they'd been there when Scott proposed, and decided she'd save that gem for later. "It just kind of happened. I would have told you sooner, but things have been a little busy lately." She took a sip of her drink.

"Lydia!"

"It isn't a big deal."

"I can't believe you didn't tell me! Well, so . . ." She lowered her voice. "How was it?"

"Fine."

Allison just raised her eyebrows.

"Okay, it was . . ." She caught her tongue between her teeth, and, apparently, that was enough.

"Oh, my gosh," Allison said, grinning, and shaking her head.

"The _point_ ," Lydia said, "is that it was just a drunk, reckless _one_ time thing."

"Is that all you want it to be?"

" _Yes_." She glanced at him. "It's what he wants, and it's what I want. So. That's all there is to it." At Allison's silence, she tore her gaze from Stiles to look at her friend, and scoffed at the skepticism in her expression. "We had sex, Allison. That doesn't mean he's madly in love with me. It's not like he was going to say no to a woman _throwing_ herself at him. It doesn't change the fact that, I'll repeat, _we're friends_."

"You don't _have_ to be friends, you know," Allison said. "You can be more."

"I'd rather have Stiles for a friend than for a boyfriend."

"Why? Because you aren't attracted to him? Or because you've only ever dated assholes, and you don't know how much _better_ it can be?"

"If he was interested in more than my friendship, he would have made a move a long time ago."

"No," Allison said, incredulous. "He wouldn't have. Because he's always known that _you_ weren't interested in more than friendship, and he's been respecting that."

She had to admit that it sounded liked Stiles.

He'd always been a better man than most.

Randomly, she thought of the _This is what a feminist looks like_ trucker hat that he'd bought himself, and she smiled.

"I can't believe we're even having this conversation. You know I love you, but you're a genius, and I can't _believe_ you haven't figured this out! I'm not saying he's madly in love with you because you had sex. I'm saying he's been madly in love with you for _years_!" She shook her head. "I mean, do you know why he broke up with Malia?"

Lydia frowned. "I thought—"

"You thought she broke up with him? No. He was upset over it, but he broke up with her, and he told Scott that it was because he liked her, and it wasn't fair to her to string her along when he had feelings for someone else."

"Me," Lydia said.

Allison's lips twitched with a smile. " _You_ ," she said. "If you want to be friends with him, he'd never take that for granted. But if we're talking about _his_ feelings? Lydia, you have to know." Her eyes were bright, and she was looking at Lydia like this was all so obvious.

Across the room, Stiles was doing an impression of something, and flapping his arms wildly.

"You should have told me you hooked up," Allison said. "I would have set you straight about things _immediately._ His feelings aren't in doubt."

"Supposedly," Lydia interjected.

" _Definitely_ ," Allison said. "And that means it's up to you to decide what _you_ want. But if you ask my opinion, I think you already know what you want."

Scott was heading to them, which meant that was the end of the conversation.

But while she was paying the caterers, and cleaning up, she couldn't stop herself from sneaking peaks at Stiles. He'd stayed to help her clean up, of course. She couldn't stop herself from sneaking peaks, and she couldn't stop herself from replaying Allison's words over and over, and imagining if Allison could possibly be right.

\--

Her relationship with Jackson had ended in the bathroom at ACN at four in the morning on a Tuesday. She'd been heading home when he'd called, and she'd stepped into the bathroom of the lobby to avoid prying eyes. After an hour on the phone with him, he'd told her that he was done with her, and hung up the phone.

She hadn't wanted to go back to the apartment, because he was there.

She'd gone back up to the newsroom.

She hadn't thought anyone was going to be there. It was four in the morning. The custodial staff would have left by now, too.

Stiles had been sitting at his desk, though.

"You're still here," she'd said.

They'd all had a big night that night, but he'd had it more than most. He'd helped to cover the riot via Tweets from those actually there, following the storm of information that poured in. She'd been stunned at how he'd gone into overdrive, had become an actual, legitimate investigative journalist.

After the night he'd had, she couldn't believe he hadn't gone home yet.

"I'm wired," he'd said, and he'd looked at her.

She'd watched him change at the sight of her. His bright, tired grin slipped off, and his eyes went wide in alarm; he straightened in his seat, and seemed like he was about to spring to his feet. She'd been ugly, snot-nosed crying, and there hadn't been any way to hide it.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

" _Something_ is the matter," he'd insisted.

"I broke up with Jackson." She hadn't let herself look at him in that moment, didn't want to see his reaction. "He's in town right now, and—he came to visit. _Finally_. And I couldn't leave work to spend the evening with him, and he was pissed, and—that's it. That's the last straw. We broke up."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah." She'd sat at her desk, and tried to wipe at her eyes. "Me, too."

She hadn't wanted to talk to him, to have him see her like this. She hadn't wanted _anyone_ to see her like this. It wasn't who she was. She'd meant to go up to her office. It wasn't until she'd gotten to the newsroom that she'd remembered she didn't have an office anymore, because of nepotism, and the world's worst anchor.

"You should go home," she'd told him. "It's late. You had a big night. You deserve to sleep. It's not like you get to take tomorrow off."

"He was never good enough for you," he'd said.

She'd scoffed.

"I'm serious." He'd circled the desks, and dropped to his knees in front of her. "Lydia, you have to know that you deserve so much _better_ than that guy."

"Why is that?"

"Because you deserve a guy who isn't going to make you cry every time he calls." He'd touched her hand, and it had startled her enough to make her look at him. "Because you deserve a guy who is going to be happy that you have an awesome job that you love. Because Jackson is an asshole, and you're, like, a _queen_." He'd squeezed her hand to emphasize his point.

She'd breathed a laugh despite herself.

"You're going to get past this," he's said. "I might not have ever met the guy, but I know you're better than he is. You're a badass."

"I'm a sleep-deprived, bloated _mess_."

"Nope." He'd shaken his head. "Beautiful, brilliant _badass_."

"Thanks." She'd had to drop his gaze. She'd _had_ to.

He'd just brushed his thumb over her hand, and smiled. "What are friends for?"

Something in her went impossibly soft in that moment. She'd never really acknowledged it, but they _were_ friends. "I've never really had a guy for a friend before," she'd admitted, looking up again. "I've never had a guy _want_ to be friends with me before. They've always just wanted . . ."

" _I_ want to be friends with you," he'd said. "I _am_ friends with you. And I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?" she'd asked, because she couldn't help it. She was teary-eyed and vulnerable, was cracked open, and exposed, and she couldn't keep herself from wanting.

He'd cupped her cheeks, wiping away the last of her tears. " _Promise_ ," he'd said. He'd held her gaze with a tenderness that made emotion balloon suddenly in her chest, that made her eyes burn with still more tears even while she'd smiled, and she'd believed him.

\---

Scott had to stop by to talk to HR. He'd spent most of the morning in a meeting with Meredith, and he was summarizing it for them now. It turned out he wasn't legally able to work for a cable news show for at least five years in accordance with the non-compete clause he'd signed. Lydia was steaming. Stiles, too. He was half-leaning, half-sitting on Lydia's desk, and the frustration was rolling off him in waves. Scott was resigned, though.

"I'm telling you," Stiles said, "you can't just take this lying down."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Fight!"

"Dude, I appreciate the sentiment—"

"Look, we haven't given up on making him pay for this yet. We're _going_ to prove that he set you up. But it doesn't do any good if you've, like, start carving wooden dog figurines and moved to Florida and opened a novelty wooden dog figurines store."

" . . . oddly, that wasn't on my list of possible alternate careers yet."

It figured that Peter would _have_ to interrupt. "It's bold of you to show your face, McCall," he said. His voice carried across the newsroom from where he stood lording over them like always.

"I should go," Scott said, refusing to turn, and look up.

Allison ran a hand up his arm in comfort.

"Is he _allowed_ to be here right now?" Peter asked. "McCall, what are you here for? Should I call security?"

Stiles's nostrils flared with anger.

"You know what?" Lydia said, and she reached out a hand to stop Scott from leaving. "That's _enough_ out of you." She raised her gaze to Peter. He was smirking, and opened his mouth to reply, but she was _done_ with his. _Him._ "Nobody in this newsroom has an _ounce_ of respect for you, so coming out of your office to belittle the person everyone _loves_ is a waste of your time. Crawl back into the dark little hole that spawned you, and leave us _alone_."

"Oh." He blinked. "I hope you aren't trying to create a hostile work environment right now."

"Is that a threat?"

"I know how much you enjoy simpering in front of the camera, Giselle," he said. "I'd hate for you to lose that opportunity because you can't seem to remember your place."

He was unbelievable. "I'm done," she said. She was done with him, with being bullied into putting up with him. "I'm done keeping my mouth shut for the sake of my job. No job is worth this." She rose to her feet, taking her purse out from under her desk, and pulling her coat off the back of her chair. "You know, I used to apologize for who I am. I'd pretend I wasn't that smart, that I was just some pretty little dimwit, and I'd do it to preserve the self-esteem of assholes like you. But I was done with that a long time ago, and now I'm done with you." Her lip curled with disgust. "I should've been done a week after you started when I told you that we _needed_ to lead with the House debate on raising the debt ceiling because it was shaping up to be a _disaster_ , and you asked me what I'd do to _make it worth your while_." She shook her head. "My mistake. Now, though? I'm _done_."

"Congratulations," he said, amused.

"You are a sexist, egotistical _dickhead_. You're a bully. You have no respect for women, or for anyone who actually has to work for success. And I know you think you look good on camera, and I know you think that's enough, but it's not. It's not even _close_ to enough. There's a reason our show has been tanking since you were put at the helm. And I'm done trying to pretend the show you've commandeered is the show I signed up to be a part of. I quit."

The words sent a ripple of whispers across the newsroom.

"Lydia," Scott said.

She should have done it a long time ago.

"I quit, too," Allison said. There was something like the start of a revelation in her voice, and it blossomed into certainty. "We're going to have to move to a city where Scott's able to work. There's no reason for me to stay in a job that props up a lying, ignorant egomaniac. I quit, too."

Peter just shook his head. "Ladies, I hope you know you aren't getting your jobs back when you realize what a mistake you've just made."

"I quit, too," Kira said, crossing her arms.

"Me, too," Erica said.

"Count me in," Boyd said. "I'm done with your bullshit, Hale."

"Yeah," Isaac said. "Yeah, me, too. I quit, too."

"Me, too!" Liam said.

"You're an _intern_ ," Stiles said.

"I take that to mean you aren't as stupid as your friends, Stilinski?" Peter said.

"What?" Stiles made a face. "No. Obviously, I quit, too."

"Ms. Martin."

Lydia was startled, and turned to the elevator. She hadn't realized Talia Hale was there, that she'd heard any of that. Or she might not have. Lydia had been so focused on Peter, she no idea when the president of ACN had stepped off the elevator. It didn't really matter, though.

The click of Talia's heels was especially loud in the silence of the newsroom.

"I'd like to submit my resignation," Lydia said, lifting her chin to keep her confidence.

"Yes," Talia said. "I heard. I'd like you to reconsider." She was the picture of a successful, professional woman in that moment: tall, and straight-backed, hair in a high, perfect ponytail, and wearing a blue, pinstriped skirt suit over blue, four inch heels from Louboutin. Lydia had always been a bit in awe of Talia, of her success.

"I have the utmost respect for you, Mrs. Hale," Lydia said. "But I'm afraid I can't do that. This is something I should have done a long time ago."

"I understand," Talia said. "After what I just overheard, believe me when I say I understand." She sighed. "I believe I can change your mind, however." She glanced up at her brother. "Peter? You're fired."

" _What_?"

Talia was unfazed. "How about now?" She raised her eyebrows at Lydia.

"I . . ."

"Talia, have you _lost your mind_?" Peter said.

She ignored him. "Mr. McCall, I think I owe you an apology. Over the course of a few long days, I've heard from nearly every person at _News Night_ , and _all_ of them have wanted to assure me that there is not any possible way you would have betrayed our show. I should have known that, and I apologize. You know, ratings were higher by the end of the week with you at the helm than they'd been in over six months. Even after everything, is it possible I could tempt you to interview for position of main anchor and managing editor of _News Night_?" Her gaze was calm.

"Um, yes," Scott said. " _Yes_."

"I'm coming down there," Peter said. "Talia, this is ridiculous." He was stalking to the elevator.

"Ms. Martin?"

"Well." Lydia cleared her throat. "I don't think I'll put my letter of resignation in quite yet," she said, and when Talia smiled, Lydia smiled, too.

"Can I assume the same for the rest of you?" Talia asked.

"Hell, yes!" Stiles said.

"Definitely," Allison said, smiling.

"Good," Talia said. "If that's everything, I'll leave you all to your work. Mr. McCall, I'll need you to take over tonight's show. My brother's termination is effective immediately. Ms. Reyes, with me. We need to discuss Mr. Deucalion's visit to set. He has a number of requests."

"Talia!"

And with her brother trailing behind her, Talia started out of the newsroom. For a beat, it quiet. But the moment the elevator doors closed after her, a round of cheers broke out across the newsroom.

"Yes!" Stiles was on his feet with his hands in the air. "YES!"

She laughed.

He looked at her, and she didn't even bother to question it, surging in, and throwing her arms around his neck. He hugged her. She couldn't stop grinning, and when she pulled away from him, he was grinning, too. "Mission fucking accomplished," he said. She could see the shades of his freckles in that moment.

Her breath got stuck. More than she'd ever wanted anything in her life, she wanted to kiss him. She didn't, though.

\---

Stiles bought a bottle of champagne at the bar that night, popping it off with a yell, and spilling it everywhere, making a mess when he tried to pour it into the glasses that everyone lifted towards him.

"Today was the most awesome you have ever been, by the way," he said.

"I know," she said, prim.

He grinned.

Everyone had wanted to celebrate that night, which meant their usual little round table in the back was crowded, and there weren't enough stools. Stiles was standing by Lydia, was close enough that when she shifted on her stool, her leg brushed his hip, and her arm brushed his chest. She found herself leaning into him when she grew tipsy, because he'd take her weight, and she liked the warmth of him, and the solidness, and his crisp, soapy smell.

She deserved it.

They'd really, _truly_ made Peter pay this time.

"Stiles," Isaac said. "Look who must have just got back in town." He nodded.

It was Derek's sister. Cora. She had entered the bar with her brother, and was letting her gaze sweep over everything in search of something. Of them. She elbowed her brother, and was starting for them.

"Is there a reason we're excited that Cora is here?" Lydia asked.

"I like Cora," Kira said.

"She's totally got a thing for Stiles," Isaac said. "Dude, she was, like, all over you last time she was in town."

"You should go for it," Erica said, taking a sip of her beer. "Girl is _hot_."

"Super, _super_ hot," Isaac said.

In that moment, Lydia victory over Peter suddenly didn't feel like much of a victory.

"Hey, losers."

There was a chorus of greetings.

"How's D.C.?" Scott asked.

"The same," Cora said, and she plucked Stiles's beer right from his hand, drinking the rest of it in one go. "Honestly, I'm over it. I'm asking my mom for reassignment. Sounds like you guys have been busy here. Got my mother to give up defending my uncle's dumb ass. _Finally_." She handed Stiles the empty beer bottle. "It looks you need a drink, Stilinski. I'll take a PBR."

It figured that Cora would drink PBR. She was a _bro_. Lydia pursed her lips, and took a sip of her cocktail.

\---

 _He doesn't like Cora_ , Allison texted. _He likes you. Give me ONE actual, LEGITIMATE reason why you shouldn't go for it, and I'll shut up._

_\---_

She eyed Stiles over the partition. He was sucking on a purple jolly rancher, and his lips were purple with the candy, because, apparently, he was eating only purple jolly ranchers today, and, every few seconds, he'd roll it over his tongue, and it would clang against his teeth. It was annoying.

"Your teeth are going to rot out of your mouth," she told him.

"Probably," he said.

This was pointless. "Let's go." She pushed to her feet, taking her coat off the back of her chair, and slipping it on, pulling her hat from the pocket, and her gloves.

"What?" He glanced up from his computer, and frowned. "Where?"

"Out."

"I'm fucking with this guy on Twitter right now."

"I need to talk to you." She pulled on her gloves. "Let's go. _Now_." She sent him a look, and it wasn't a request.

He scrambled up, and grabbed his jacket hastily before he followed her out of the newsroom.

She found she couldn't make herself look at him.

"Is something the matter?" he asked

"No."

"You're kind of acting like something's the matter," he said, hurrying to keep up with her while they crossed the lobby.

It was snowing. The sidewalk had been cleared by thousands of feet, though, and she headed up slightly, and away from their building. She turned on her heel, and faced him. He was going so quickly that he nearly plowed right into her.

"Whoa!"

This wasn't the place to have this conversation. They were on the street, and people were brushing past them, and it was cold, and gray, and _snowing_. But they had to have this conversation, and this was better than in there.

"So . . . ?"

"What are you doing after the broadcast?"

He blinked. "Tonight?"

"Yes."

"Um, I'm actually leaving before we got off the air. I'm going to see the Yankees play the Rangers, which, like—" He pulled at the hem of his blue Mets shirt to display it. "—blasphemy, I know, but Cora has tickets." He shrugged.

"Cora." It felt like her stomach had hollowed out suddenly. "You're going on a date with Cora."

"I mean, I wouldn't call it a _date_ ," he said.

"What _would_ you call it?"

"I'd call it just hanging out? Like, Cora is great. But she isn't really my _type_ , which I know is kind of douche-y. But I just don't think we'd work. Do you know she told me the other day that she didn't like _food_? Who doesn't like food? How can you _not like food_?"

His hair was peppered with snow. He should have brought a hat. His cheeks had pinked with the cold, too.

"So . . . is there something you need me for tonight?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Okay." He nodded. "I'll cancel."

"Good."

"Do I get to know why I'm cancelling, or . . . ?" He trailed off.

"I'm going to kiss you."

He blinked.

She pushed up on her tiptoes, clasped his face in her hands, and paused, and when he nodded just slightly, she found herself smiling, and she closed the distance, and she kissed him.

He touched her elbows, and her waist, pulling her closer, and opening his mouth, deepening the kiss.

She broke away from him.

"I—"

"You're cancelling to go on a date with me," she said, breathless.

"Definitely." He nodded. "Yes. I'll do it—I'll text her right now!" He fumbled to get his phone from his pocket, and she laughed, and grabbed his jacket, pulling him down for a kiss.

She couldn't stop smiling. It was making it hard to kiss him. She pressed her smile into his cheek.

"I didn't know you wanted this," he said.

"Me, neither."

She drew away from just enough to look at him, to meet his gaze. He was smiling, and his eyes were sweeping over her face, were drinking her in. Her heart pounded wildly in reply. No one had ever looked at her like that, and this was _Stiles_ , and it was everything she wanted in that moment. _He_ was everything she wanted in that moment: her friend, and partner-in-crime, her clown, her confidant, and supporter, and defender.

Just.

Her _favorite_.

"I do, though. I want it. I want _you._ "

He kissed her.

"You want it, too, right?"

His fingertips were cold when he brushed the hair back from her face. "You have no idea how much," he said, soft. It put butterflies in her stomach like she was sixteen again.

"Good." She cleared her throat, and rested her hands on her shoulders. "I plan to have it all."

"You're totally going to have it all." He grinned.

"Is that so?"

He leaned in. "I happen to know that you're very capable." His breath was warm on her lips. "Have a PhD from Harvard. Speak eight languages. Segment of our show is consistently most viewed. Excellent at being a badass, putting misogynistic buttholes in their place, and inspiring everyone around you to quit their jobs."

"Shut up," she said, "and kiss me."

He kissed her.

**Fin.**


End file.
